The Starborne Legacy, Part One: Progeny
by Valerie Shea
Summary: Mendingwall wasn't supposed to be born, wasn't to be a Druid, & was warned by the High Priest-do not fall in love with Bellthaine, or she will die. Following his heart, facing enemies at every turn, he fights his own fate to be with the woman he loves.
1. Omen

Introduction

_Perhaps there are those among you who know the story, and then again, perhaps not. If you are of the former, it may be the version of the tale you have heard has been exaggerated from what it truly is. If you are of the latter, then I have the great pleasure of relating to you one of the most delightful, beloved love stories in our world. _

_It is one that mothers use to lull their little ones to sleep abed, one that young girls dream about as they wistfully plan their futures. Boys make sticks into swords, fingers into claws, playing out the masterpiece with their unlimited imaginations. It is one that I have recalled to, over and over again, at the request of my own dear little son. And once I have related such a story to you, I hope you shall share it, in your own way, with your loved ones, so that the tradition never ceases. _

_My name is Nomoreto Butterbrig, a Grand-Master of Engineering and a practiced scribe, called genius by my wife, though she is prone to legendary delusions of grandeur. And all that you have heard about me is true. I have met them. They were real, both of them living, breathing, bleeding persons who stood here as ordinarily as you and I do. They felt joys and sorrows; they experienced the mundane and the supernatural. _

_Who on earth are you talking about, old Nomo, do you say? Well, do not think I have forgotten you new bloods. I shall tell you all the story, not a fairytale, not a documentary, but the honest to Goddess, true story._

_The story of Mendingwall Starborne, and his beloved bride._

_Shall we begin?_

**Chapter One: Omen**

_Butterbrig's Note: As I know most audiences shall be of a mortal, dare I say, human nature, I will try to relate immortal life spans as best I can so that you may understand._

The night Bellthaine Moonrunner was born, it was said, the stars glowed brighter than they had in two millenia. And Darnassus, the largest and most prosperous Elven city in the world sheltered under the long-stretching branches of the World-Tree, spent the next morning in grand celebration. Festival colors of purple and silver decorated banners with the insignia of a crown, and were hung upon every lamp post. Kal'dorei children raced each other down cobblestone roads, while men and women drank and toasted to the infant's health. Merry music could be heard from a mile away--and such grandeur could be justified. Her birth was near miraculous. She was the High Priest's firstborn, his heir apparent, pride and joy. Not only that--she was worth a fortune.

And it was that morning, when Mendingwall first met his fate.

Of course, young Mendingwall was barely the age of two at the time, and had no inkling whatsoever of his own destiny. He was balanced, hands wrapped around a small leather ball, upon his mother's hip--and when the Lady Nemariel held him up to behold the tiny girl, asleep in a round cradle adorned with aurora silk and moon-cloth lace, he held little interest. He could not touch her, or carry her around like a toy doll--so what, in any two year old child's mind--was the point of an infant?

Instead, his mother handed him over to his older brother, Manolios, who had just become of the age for schooling, and was instructed to stay out of trouble.

The Lady Nemariel Stormherald, born of what many would consider the highest of Elven nobility, was by far the most beautiful woman in the procession to meet the new arrival. Her hair, dark like navy sea water, was woven in a long braid that fell down to her waist. Despite having two sons, she was slender in figure compared to others, and wore thin white linen that accented her waist, small chest and rounded hips. She was tall, normally so for a Night Elf, and olive-skinned with eyes that glowed dimly silver, revealing nothing except the tiniest hint of feigned contentment.

Once she had seen off her two sons, she was joined by her husband, who brought his arms around her waist and pulled her lovingly against him. "I thought I'd never get you alone," he remarked with a mischievous grin, and softly kissed her slender neck.

Nemariel giggled and pushed him away, only to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him in closer. "Welcome home." She whispered, and they shared a kiss that reflected both compassion and relief.

Mendingwall's father was Kuja Stormherald, a strong and confident man only a year younger than his wife. He had broad shoulders, powerful hands and an even more overwhelming sense of duty that commanded respect from everyone around him. He was silver-haired and pale-skinned, with jaunt cheeks and piercing eyes. It was rare that anyone saw him out of armor, for usually he was plated from head to toe, weapons at his side, but that day, the Captain of the Sentinels was dressed simply as a civilian.

It had been two years since Nemariel had seen him last; and a heart-withering two years it had been. Kuja was often away at war, taking his most skilled warriors and battling with alongside the Elven Allies in unknown lands against the enemy. The enemy, at that time, were the Scourge, as Lordaeron had just recently fell, it's king slaughtered by his own son. She feared every day would bring her one of those letters, sent in black envelopes with a golden seal that spoke of death in battle, but instead she lived upon Kuja's letters, which he had religiously sent to her every day--although they were often delayed and delivered in bulk--that she had hidden away in a small chest underneath her bed.

"Where is my son?" Kuja asked in his boisterous voice, one that could carry across a battalion, if need be.

Nemariel pointed to Manolios, who stood with his friends, holding his younger brother with much difficulty as he squirmed and fussed, wishing to be set loose. Kuja's eyes lightened with realization and pride at how much his firstborn had grown. "He is so much like you." Nemariel said fondly. "He takes charge of the other children and does well with his teacher."

"Who is he torturing?" Kuja asked, half-laughing as he watched Manolios vainly try to subdue his ward.

Nemariel faintly smiled. "That is Mendingwall, your son."

Kuja said in disbelief. "Surely you jest!--"

"He celebrated his second year last week."

Husband and wife then shared a knowing look, one that any onlooker would not have been able to explain. Their voices became soft, and expressions changed. Kuja was filled with concern as he scanned the crowds. "So, you went through with it, then?"

Nemariel's answer was full of pain, as if she had been wounded by his question. "Yes, my Lord." Her eyes were upon her youngest. He looked so much like her, the same navy hair and captivating smile. It tore her apart inside.

Kuja pulled his wife closer to him affectionately. "It must have been difficult for you."

"Difficult?" Nemariel stared up at him in disbelief, hurt by his words. "You have no idea what the last two years have done to me." She said through clenched teeth, holding back tears. "It nearly killed me. You have no idea what it was like, keeping such a secret--and if Staghelm would have found out--"

"I don't care about Staghelm." Kuja said fiercely, and sat Nemariel down on a vacant bench, kneeling before her. "I know it must have been hard, but you are a strong woman. And it had to be done. It was foretold--"

"Don't give me your prophecy; I don't want to hear it." Nemariel interrupted heatedly. "How could you ask me to do something like that? How could you put your family in jeopardy for some drunken priest's farce? It was an absolute nightmare, if you _must _know. I question myself to this day, why I believed in your superstition. I live every day walking on egg shells--"

"Your son is healthy, my love. Nothing went wrong." Kuja reassured her, setting a strong hand on her soft shoulder. "We'll talk about it later."

"Father!"

With joy, Manolios ran towards Kuja, arms spread as wide as they could go. Kuja scooped his son into his arms and held him tight against his chest, laughing. "My boy, you've grown since I last saw you, let me look at you!" He sat him back on his feet and looked down into the hopeful eyes of his firstborn. "Your mother tells me that you wish to become a hunter one day."

Manolios' eyes sparkled with adoration and his mother smiled as he beamed, holding out his chest. All Manolios had spoken of for the past week was seeing his father again, and he desired nothing more than to be just like him. He stood tall, straining to look older and said in a bold voice, "I've been studying hard, father. I'm top in my class."

"As you should be," Kuja ruffled his hair and chuckled, "we Stormheralds have our names to make, don't we?" He knelt down before Mendingwall, who shied behind his brother nervously. "And you must be little Mend. What an odd name your mother gave you."

Nemariel watched as Mendingwall peeked around Manolios' legs, and crossed her arms, indignant. "It is a wonderful name. There is no other Mendingwall in the city, and besides, it's suits him."

"I suppose it does. Shy little thing."

"Don't be frightened, Mending." Manolios hissed as he nudged his brother in front of him and held him still for Kuja to see. "This is our papa."

Mendingwall did not seem so convinced and looked at Kuja's open arms warily, golden eyes wide and hands held behind his back. Kuja smiled gently. "It is all right, I know I've been away for too long. The first time your brother met me, it was the same way. There is something far more comforting in the appearance of your mother."

And then Kuja's attention was elsewhere. His shoulders tensed and he stood to his full height menacingly, staring across the street. "What is it?" Nemariel asked, coming to his side, and then she too fell silent. After a moment, she looked to her sons. "Go play with your brother, Manolios."

A lone Sentinel, armored for war, stood not yards away from Kuja. He had removed his helm to reveal long, navy hair that fell in two braids across his chest and narrow, golden eyes that could pierce through the darkest veil. His jaw was set, but there was no evil intent in his face, or hatred. There was not a fool that would dare challenge his own Captain, and tales of Kuja's strength and valor had preceded him. No, there was no anger or flame in this Sentinel's body. He stepped forward and bowed to Kuja in reverence.

Kuja stepped in front of his wife protectively. "Please," the Sentinel begged his superior, "I need to speak with--"

"How dare you, Elhadin." Kuja hissed. "And in such a public place? Must I punish you to avoid suspicion?"

"Please," Elhadin's attention was on Nemariel. "I need to speak with you."

In fear, Nemariel shook her head and moved back. In her eyes there was more suffering than any mortal could imagine; her body shook with it. "I'm sorry." She whispered. "You must leave."

Elhadin looked as if she had speared him through the stomach. The handsome young man crumbled, shoulders slumped, and retreated into the crowds. Kuja hushed his wife and hugged her closer than ever before. Her face buried in his chest, Nemariel's shoulders stiffened a sob.

~*~*~*~

The Stormherald estate was small for such grand standing, but it suited Lord Kuja and his wife perfectly. The curved rooftops of the manor-house pointed towards the stars--the family emblem of a swirling thunderstorm was inscribed upon the twin doors that swung open into the kitchen. From the kitchen there was a view of the gardens, which burst in violet bloom with the Lady Nemariel's favorite flowers. A single willow tree graced the peaceful terrace, its branches fluttering in the quiet breeze. The hallways were open, with railings separating smooth wooden floors from the arbor, and each door was a bedroom.

It was late evening and their children were finally asleep. Nemariel had spent the rest of the day in silence after the stressful meeting in the street. Kuja did not try to console her and accepted that she wanted to be left alone; in his heart, he knew there was nothing he could do, and he could not blame her for it. In other circumstances, perhaps--but in this particular situation, she was without blemish.

She sat alone on a wooden bench, underneath her willow tree. Kuja passed her by and noticed she was without warmth in the cool night air. Hesitantly, he brought her a robe, and came to join her. "Are you all right?" He asked at last.

Nemariel accepted the robe gratefully, draping it around her shoulders. She stared at her feet, as if she were afraid to look Kuja in the eye. "I suppose." But her front was useless. She was an open book. With a sigh, she rested her head upon her husband's strong shoulder and he kissed her hair. "No, I'm not all right." She whispered. "This was too hard. I'm sorry, Kuja. I tried, for you, I really did. I couldn't help myself. I couldn't control...I couldn't stop how...how I..."

"I understand." Kuja reassured her.

"Are you angry with me?"

"I could never be angry with you, Nemariel. The pain will heal itself in time." Kuja smiled faintly, although he could not deny that he shared the same agonizing ache, a feeling of betrayal, guilt--and even though he knew it was petty--jealousy. "I'm only sorry I could not return to you sooner. Maybe I could have prevented all of this. I could have stopped it when you couldn't."

There was a rustle, the slight creak of wood floors. Kuja turned to the hallway and stared in utter disbelief. He rose to his feet in the manner of a bear, bristling with rage. "How--dare--you--" he sputtered.

Nemariel gasped and shrunk away, like a small child to an animal. Elhadin Blackbough, the Sentinel from earlier that morning, stood before them both, wearing his own clothes. His face was twisted with misery and he bowed before Kuja, as he had so many times before. "Forgive me, Kuja. But I couldn't stand another day--"

"_You fool_." Kuja hissed through clenched teeth. "You risk all of our lives by showing your face here, you _know _it is forbidden."

"I came to see Nemariel." Elhadin implored. "If you could just give me one moment with her, just one..."

"You knew you were on borrowed time, you _both _did." Kuja declared flatly. "Nemariel has accepted it, now you must."

Elhadin shook his head fiercely. "I can't, I can't just forget, and accept."

Kuja breathed in sharply and calmed himself down, looking to Nemariel apprehensively. She hesitated, and then rose to her feet. She touched her husband's arm and nodded.

"Very well, as she wishes it." Kuja growled. "But every moment you spend here, you bring us closer to doom."

Kuja strode away, his boots falling loudly upon the ground. Once he was out of sight, Elhadin burst towards Nemariel, wrapping his arms around her tightly, desperately. The moment he touched her, she began to cry, and tears rolled down her face uncontrollably. "Why did you come here?" She asked, sobbing. "I told you to stay away, why couldn't you listen?"

Elhadin's mouth vehemently crushed against hers. Had it been a year before she would have surrendered to him and embraced his passion, but his kiss only brought her more grief and she pushed him away. "I told you it was over, we did what we were supposed to do. Why can't you just let me go?"

Elhadin stared at her sadly, at the distance between them. "Was it so easy for you to forget me?" He asked, wounded by her words.

She bit her lip, trying her hardest to stifle her own emotions while fighting off her desires. "Of course not," her voice broke, "I think of you every day."

"Let me take you away with me. Please, Kuja will understand, I know he will. He said so himself. I heard you both talking." Elhadin wiped at his eyes, lip quivering. Nemariel hated seeing him so vulnerable. When in uniform he stood strong and fast, like a stone wall. When she had felt his embrace, the power of his arms was nearly overwhelming. And yet, before her he seemed so weak, like a child reaching out for relief--but there was nothing she could do.

"You know we can't do that. Staghelm wouldn't stand for it. And, my son--"

Elhadin's eyes flickered at his mention. Nemariel turned away from him and struggled to speak. "I want more than anything to go with you, but my life is here. My sons are here. My husband--Kuja cares for me very much. He has never treated me less. I cannot disgrace him, and all that he has done for me, by abandoning him. I cannot abandon my children. Never, could I do that."

"I love you, Nemariel." Elhadin's voice was suddenly daring. His words were true, and struck through the air like knives through water. "Can you look me in the eye and say that you don't love me?"

Nemariel turned to him weakly, and did as he asked, her silver eyes stained with tears. "I'm sorry." She whispered. "You must go."

She left him standing there, shattered, and fled to her bed, where she flung herself upon the silk blankets and sobbed.

It did not take Kuja long to return to Elhadin, who was far too shocked to move his feet. Perhaps he had thought for certain that she would run to him and agree to elope, far from Darnassus, abandon everything for him. Foolishly he had dreamed of such a happy ending from the first moment when he had learned of their fate. Whatever the reason, Kuja's anger had been sated. He placed a hand upon Elhadin's shoulder. "You must leave here, now. I'm sorry."

"She chose you." Elhadin muttered. "After all this...I cannot believe--I thought her--"

"Don't be foolish." Kuja interrupted heatedly. "I would gladly give an arm, a leg, an eye for the way she looks at you. She will never be able to look at me like that, ever."

The brothers-in-arms stood tall and silent, but only for a moment. "Nemariel is very wise, Elhadin. She does not live only for herself now. Remember that. Remember why all of this happened in the first place. It is not in her nature."

"I don't know why I convinced myself otherwise." Elhadin admitted, and sighed. It was easier for him to breathe when she was away, but the pain had not subsided. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this."

"I did nothing. It was fate." Kuja shook Elhadin's shoulders as if to startle him awake. "And now your fate lies with me. We leave at the end of the week for war. I need you beside me. For the sake of Nemariel, and for all that we three have been through, can I rely on you?"

Elhadin Blackbough bowed in respect and walked away, leaving behind his heart, feeling numb. He did not know what the future would hold for him now, without Nemariel, without all he held dear. Poor, poor Elhadin Blackbough, he then was the Sentinel of Sorrow. He did not know that in a week, he would be deployed under his commander to the front, or that he would be promoted in his friend's place. He did not know he would be given the responsibility of telling Nemariel her husband was dead. He did not expect her reaction.

He did not know her last words to him would be, "I will never forgive you for what you have done."


	2. Dreamer

_**Shea's Note: This is a story I am dedicating to my husband, Trevor Jay, and plan to present it to him on his name-day. World of Warcraft is how we began our relationship together. Any feedback is welcome, as I want it to be perfected when I give it him. I will be printing any reviews along with the manuscript so that he can read them!**_

~*~*~*~*

_Butterbrig's Note: For you New Bloods, the word "Kal'dorei" is a word that you can roughly translate into "Night Elf." All Darnassian Night Elves are Kal'dorei. The more you know!_

**Chapter Two : Dreamer**

_There is nothing more exciting_

_to a young Elven boy, perhaps, _

_than the opportunity to prove his worth._

In human standards, half a century had passed, generations had made their course through history--and yet, Mendingwall Stormherald matched a boy of seventeen. He had grown from a stumbling toddler into a lithe and graceful young man, tall enough to match most other boys. His deep navy hair was windswept, cropped up away from his neck, and his eyes glowed a rare golden color that many other Night Elves envied.

He tugged anxiously at his brown earthen vest, trying to unbutton it hastily as he sprinted down the path into the Military Terrace of Darnassus. It was mid-morning and he had greatly overslept. After a severe chastising from his mother and a quick bid of luck, he had run all the way from his home in Dolanaar to the great city gates. For all of this rush, Mendingwall was barely sweating. Night Elves, although not supernaturally fast or strong, still clung to their old immortal heritage. They were very slow to tire, and he was a near-perfect example of his people.

The clang of metal against metal rang clearly through the air as he slowed his pace down to a casual jog. He could see several children his age, sparring in different sand-swept rings against poles stuffed to the brims with hay. Others had taken to practicing on each other and were wrestling to the ground. Their teachers patrolled and looked over each boy carefully, barking out criticism and praise when it was needed. They were armed to the teeth in plate--this was where the greatest Warriors shared one common beginning.

Mendingwall yawned and rested his back against a fence. In honesty with himself, such methods bored him to death. He was a decent enough fighter with a sword in his hand, but there was something mundane about it all--something lacking. However, his mother would never hear of him training elsewhere. She had drilled it into his head, long ago, that he was meant for a warrior's life; that was really all that mattered. She had no one in that lonely old house and he did not want to disappoint her, so he studied hard.

"You're late." shouted one of Mendingwall's teachers gruffly. "Get dressed and pick a sparring partner. NOW, Stormherald."

Mendingwall waited until his back was turned to roll his eyes, and sauntered his way to the armory. There, he shed his civilian clothing and donned his protective mail padding that strapped across his chest and over his shoulders. Then, he reached for a wide training sword, made of the sturdiest oak, and slung it over his back. It was going to be another long day.

He broke into a jog when he saw his friends gathered up in a circle, chattering over each other so loudly he could barely understand what the ruckus was about. After a moment of careful listening, he discovered why they were all so excited--there were girls watching them spar today. _Noble _girls. And each of them were betting against each other, ready to show off and flaunt their skill, in hopes of gaining one's attention.

One of his comrads, a boy he had gone through school with by the name of Zavrus, looked his way with a crooked grin. "How about you, Mend? What girl are you gonna take home to your parents tonight?"

All of the boys laughed heartily and Mendingwall set his jaw skeptically, scoffing. "What on earth is the point? They're all affianced. The only thing you're going to do is make a fool of yourself--or anger their fathers, whichever comes first."

"Lighten up, Mend!"

"Yeah, it's just for fun, Mend. You don't have to spoil our good time." Zavrus smiled and jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. "Don't worry, I'll pick one out for you--oh, don't look at me like that. It's not like you're going to marry the girl."

With the other lads clamoring in support of their ringleader's actions, Zavrus forcefully put his arm around Mend's shoulders and drug him out of the crowd, pointing obviously into the distance. "There, you see them? You can't possibly help yourself, once you see our audience."

Mendingwall was reluctant to stare in anyone's direction, much less embarrass himself gawking at women. Unfortunately for him, his eyes could not help themselves and he found himself look across the way to a group of noble young women, clothed in royal garments of silver and blue.

There were three of them, all walking together, as graceful as swans. Their robes covered silken dresses and trailed across the cobblestone road as they approached. The one leading the others was tall, strong in her frame and near man-like in stature, with billowing violet hair that was left freely to play in the wind. Mendingwall recognized her almost immediately--she was Dhessica Windhawk, the second cousin of the High Priest of Elune. She reminded him of a lead female in a wolf pack--she was tall, striking, and intimidating enough to make some of the boys huddled in whispers behind him, afraid to even speak to her.

The one flanking her left side he recognized also--she was the daughter of a widower, and her mother was said to be a direct descendant of the first Druid of the order, Cenarius--although no one really knew if this was true, or just her father's attempt at heightening their status in society. Her name was Evetheres Fawn, and she had remarkably tan skin for a Night Elf, and her light pine-colored hair was held back in various braids and headbands. Her jewelry was overdone by far, but her eyes were striking. Green, he noticed, and that was a rare trait for his people. Perhaps she was part dryad.

Yet it was the one on Dhessica's right that truly caught his attention. He did not recognize her in the least; her hair was long, the color of twilight, that fell like a waterfall to her mid waist in rare half-curls that played with the morning breeze. She was not tall, like most Night-Elven girls--in fact, she was quite small, barely reaching Dhessica's shoulders in height, with a petite frame hidden underneath her lavish garments. The sunlight hit her face in such a way that he could not ignore her features. Unlike the other two young women she accompanied, she wore no cosmetics, no paint to hide unwanted blemishes. Her cheeks were plain and lips pale, their natural shade, but her silver eyes were incomprehensively beautiful.

It must have been minutes before he realized he was staring, and by that time, the women had stopped, close enough within earshot. He should have known--his friends had gotten very quiet.

Dhessica smiled wryly at Mendingwall, obviously amused with how foolish he must have looked. "Lady Bellthaine, it appears you have an admirer."

Mendingwall swallowed. So, she was the High Priest's daughter, and probably the one with the highest standing among the three of them. Bellthaine Moonrunner. To a human, she looked no more than fifteen.

When Dhessica spoke to her, she looked at Mendingwall with curiosity, and his cheeks flushed. "I--uh--" he stammered, emberrassed. "Sorry..."

"Well, can you blame him, my lady Dhessica?" Zavrus bellowed heartily, making Mendingwall jump. He had almost forgotten about the titan-like grip over his own shoulders. Zavrus had been there all along. "Mendingwall just wanted to ask if you three fine, lovely ladies would like to watch us all spar today."

Dhessica and Evetheres looked disinterested, as if they wanted Zavrus to try harder. Bellthaine smiled kindly at Mendingwall, as if apologizing for the others' behavior, and he quickly glanced away, clearing his throat.

"I don't know," Evetheres said with an overdrawn yawn, "sparring seems awfully dull to me."

Mendingwall knew Dhessica disagreed, just by the way she stood, feet planted firmly on the ground, like a statue--she was very obviously going to be a Sentinel someday. But Bellthaine struck him as the one with the most compassion and civility. "I wouldn't mind watching for a while," he heard her pipe up, and liked her voice immediately. "I've never seen a sparring match before."

"Oh, very well." Evetheres yielded unhappily. "You should have known better than to bring Bell along, Dhessica. She's far too interested in everything."

Dhessica scolded her companion with a glare and Evetheres fell silent, but Bellthaine was not offended and stepped forward. "Will you be fighting, then?" She asked softly, but her voice was as clear to him as human cathedral bells.

Mendingwall was sure she was looking right at him, but Zavrus did not seem to think so. "Of course I'll be fighting!" He roared. Mendingwall winced. He was so loud. "And I choose Mendingwall as my first challenger."

"Why me?" Mendingwall hissed.

"Because you never win a match," Zavrus taunted, and pushed him for emphasis. "Come on, let's go."

"Ridiculous," Mendingwall muttered to him, following his much larger and chiseled companion into the ring of sand, marked by poles of wood set in a circle, each individually tied with a rope that stretched the entire perimeter.

One of the other boys threw Zavrus his favorite weapon; a long bastard sword, heavy and broad to smart a rival's hide but dull enough to be used by the young for practice. Mendingwall stared at it warily; Zavrus had bested him time after time, ever since they could barely walk. He could recall being pushed, wrestled, and beaten by his strong friend many times in their imaginary jousting. He had always taken it in stride, as a game.

But as his eyes met with his now rival, in the sandy fighting ring, he knew Zavrus was no longer pretending, playing for fun. He wanted to prove himself in front of these women, determined to make his worth far more than just a common fighter. Perhaps in his mind, he would become legendary in war and take such a bride. Most Elven boys at such an age, that have tasted neither battle nor knowledge, care about little more than lineage.

"Quit gawking there like an idiot, Mendingwall. Pick your weapon!" The boys shouted, whooping as they bet among themselves on the winner. He could hear them all talking, taunting each other. Not that any of them were in disagreement, he thought. All money was on Zavrus.

The girls were leaning on the rope together now, eagerly watching--even Evertheres, whom Mendingwall considered perhaps the most boring female he had ever encountered, seemed excited to see the outcome. Dhessica's eyes were on Zavrus, as if she fancied him. He groaned to himself and shook his head. How easily men were swayed by those batting eyelashes. It was so unbecoming.

But how could he talk? He nervously glanced at Bellthaine and looked away just as quickly. She was watching him, her countenance betraying nothing, neither fancy or repulse. She was just there, steadfast, beautiful--stupid, _makes-you-want-to-kill-yourself _beautiful--and it was her, not the others, that made him nervous.

_Get a grip on yourself_, he chided. _You're acting like a child_.

"Pick your damned weapon, already, Stormherald!"

"Fine!" Mendingwall snapped, and he gestured to a wooden sword. They threw it at him and laughed in disbelief. It was far thinner than Zavrus' blade, but it was sturdy, unbreakable, made from the World-Tree's discarded bark and polished smooth.

"That thing will never protect you against Zavrus, Stormherald!"

"Yeah, he's right! Zav will break your stick in half and then eat you for breakfast!"

They were all laughing. Dhessica and Evetheres were sharing scoffs as well, but Bellthaine said nothing, still as a doe in a thicket. Mendingwall scowled and planted his feet firmly apart, digging his boots into the sand. Zavrus smiled at him, brazen and overconfident. He was sick of being overpowered, being a joke to everyone else. He was no warrior, he never desired to be--but he had qualities of his own. He was fast, lithe, flexible, and far smaller than his towering friend. He could use that to his advantage.

His hands wound tighter on the hilt of his wooden sword. Zavrus was not the only one proving himself that day.

"Ready?" Zavrus asked, but he did not even give Mendingwall time to answer as he ran forward, swinging, itching to give Mendingwall a strong blow that would surely knock him off his feet and win the lady Dhessica as his admirer. His smaller opponent was ready; and with focus and precision he dodged out of the charging boy's way, his feet landing lightly towards his right side. Everyone gasped in surprise. No one suspected him so swift.

With a growl, Zavrus swung again; Mendingwall ducked and with a quick movement, snapped at Zavrus' knees. The blow was not meant to hinder him, but it smarted and he leapt away before his friend could retaliate. Zavrus' face boiled red and he hunched his shoulders forward menacingly, grasping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles were white.

"What are you doing?" He demanded with a hiss, rushing him again. Instead of dodging, Mendingwall met him head-on, and their weapons clashed in the shape of a misbalanced cross. Both gritted their teeth as they held their ground, desperately using all the strength they had, attempting to force the other to lose their balance.

"What's gotten into you?" Zavrus asked angrily. Mendingwall could feel that he was losing ground but made no movement. "You've never fought like this before."

"I've never had a reason to, it never meant anything before." Mendingwall retorted, golden eyes flashing.

"I can't believe it," he heard one of the other boys say, "Mend's actually trying. He thinks he can really win."

Zavrus heard as well and laughed, finally pushing Mendingwall to his limit. "All the more victory when I beat him to the ground!" He roared, thrusting his sword again, and missed. His blood was boiling. Mendingwall was too fast. "Stop jumping away like a toad, you coward. Face me!"

Mendingwall's brow furrowed and stood his ground as Zavrus came at him in petty fury, holding up his wooden weapon in defense as the enemy blade came crashing down against him, catching squarely in the middle of his grasp. They grunted and wrestled to keep their ground again; Zavrus looked down at to the ground and saw that Mendingwall's foot was strategically placed behind his ankle, ready to trip him. He stared at him in anger and disbelief. "Do it." He hissed. No one else could hear. "Take me down. Stop wasting time, damned it. I deserve it."

Mendingwall's thoughts flashed to the women watching; to noble Dhessica, dull Everetheres, and angelic Bellthaine. His face softened and he yielded, unwilling to embarrass Zavrus in front of those he wished to impress the most. He, in turn, would lose face, but what did it matter? They were just women, spoken for since their birth. He would not be so foolish as to hope for such beauty.

His friend was not so forgiving. In a rage, Zavrus punched him in the chest and sent him into the ground. Mendingwall coughed sand out of his lungs and curled into a ball, grasping his ribs. The on looking boys cheered with joy and ran into the ring to embrace the rightful winner. In the corner of his eye, he could see Dhessica trying to hold back her own glee as she stared in longing at her champion. Evetheres had gone; she had apparently lost all interest and was seeking excitement elsewhere.

Bellthaine had no such reaction. Mendingwall could not help it; he raised his head, expecting to see contempt and disgust. Instead, she was gliding to him, gracefully as if she were hovering above the ground, her gown dancing around her dainty bare feet. She walked past the others as if they did not exist--pushing past Dhessica as she embraced Zavrus far more affectionately than any affianced young lady should--and knelt beside him, balancing herself on the tips of her toes.

"You are very kind."

Mendingwall groaned, wiping sand from his twilight-colored hair. "What are you talking about?" He grumbled. "He won fair and square."

"Don't." Bellthaine said with a faint smile. Mendingwall was taken aback by her manner. She seemed far less intimidating now. There was innocence about her that he could not describe, drawing him in. "I live with one of the greatest liars of our kind, so I can tell you truthfully, you are terrible at it."

"I don't know what you mean." Mendingwall retorted stubbornly, painfully sitting up.

"You could have beaten him, but you chose not to." She said. "You must be his very dear friend."

Mendingwall scoffed under his breath, stretching his legs. His joints ached. He had put his body through more than he was used to. "I doubt he'll forgive me. He has his pride. Everyone else may be fooled, but I'll be surprised if he speaks to me ever again."

"It was still very kind of you to spare him." Bellthaine continued. "He must have told you about Dhessica."

"No, actually, he didn't." Mendingwall brushed himself off and stood up alone; Bellthaine did not dare humiliate him further by helping him. "I assumed she was just another pretty face."

Guilt crossed Bellthaine's face. "I said too much. Dhessica swore me to secrecy. She tells me of how they plan to marry. I doubt her father knows of their intention."

Mendingwall was about to ask her more, but caught his tongue between his teeth. Why did he suddenly care about the politics of Darnassian marriage? Such quarrels, his brother had told him once upon a time, were best left to women. He brushed all of his questions aside and nodded at her. "I must go."

Bellthaine followed him out of the Warrior's Terrace, hands held behind her back. Her stride was near a bounce; she seemed giddy with curiosity and danced in front of him. "Will you walk me home?"

Stunned, Mendingwall stood with mouth open. "Isn't that against some unspoken rule?"

"No, you're just walking me home." She pretended to pout, crossing her arms over her chest. "What if something terrible happens to me? I could sprain my ankle on the road, be stranded for days. Some ruffian could kidnap me." When he stared at her incredulously, she giggled. "What? It could happen."

She twirled the hem of her dress, awaiting his answer, her face bright and cheeks blush. Mendingwall was rather confused, and yet still drawn to this strange and brazen girl that stood before him as if to mock him. "I...guess I could..." he managed, unsure of himself.

"Marvelous!" Bellthaine exclaimed with glee, and shocked him again as she took him by the hand and led him deeper into the city of Darnassus.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The time passed so quickly, Mendingwall discovered, when he was with Bellthaine.

The first few steps down the road with her were awkward in the least, terribly uncomfortable at the most, but once she started speaking to him his anxiety slowly ebbed away. He found that he did not need to do very much talking at all. Occasionally they would exchange banter, something he strangely enjoyed, but she made all observations and spoke of the things that she loved the most as they walked together.

She would ask him a question and he would answer as shortly as possible. A part within him was tempted very much to open up to this curious girl, but the other side of him was extremely reluctant. Even though his family was well-respected, she was the daughter of the High Priest, and even a mere friendship with her could cause heartache.

The houses around them became grander and grander as they neared the Temple of Elune and the Cenarion Enclave. Cobblestone outer roads turned into limestone walkways, aligned with violet silken carpets.

"Have you ever been outside of Darnassus?"

"Hmm? Oh," Mendingwall shrugged, "A few times, but just to Dolanaar and back."

"Pity." Bellthaine said, disappointed. "I've never been outside of the city myself, and I had hoped you could tell me about the harbor, and the boats, and Auberdine." Auberdine was a small coastal town to the South of the World Tree.

Mendingwall gawked. "You've never been to the harbors?"

"No. Does that make me pathetic?" Bellthaine looked down at the hem of her robes and adjusted them accordingly. "My father keeps me studying adamantly, but he is away on business in human lands, so my mother allows me to wander."

Mendingwall smirked. "Well, it is rather pathetic...but it isn't something we can't remedy."

He could not believe he was saying such things, but it came out all of the same. Bellthaine was instantly delighted. "You mean you'll take me?"

"S-sure, if you want."

Bellthaine twirled about happily. "That would be wonderful!" Mendingwall managed to smile, inwardly amused. She was definitely theatrical, animated in her every movement with emotion. She seemed so happy to be in his company and it was flattering, but he could not help but feel he was being played, teased by this beautiful young girl who was so keen to be standing next to him. Such feelings annoyed him.

By noon, the limestone walkways had curved around and gone high upon a hill, overlooking the small shallow lakes that flanked the Darnassian treasury, and the entrance of the Temple of Elune. It was here that Mendingwall first laid his eyes upon the House of Moonrunner; he had seen it many times before but had never paid much attention, until now. Golden archways glittered in the dim sunlight and the roofs curved upward in the traditional way, decorated with different colors of paper lanterns. A rune was carved into the great wooden doors that Mendingwall understood to mean, "sons of the moon."

"It's a little overdramatic, isn't it?" Bellthaine said, emberrassed as she pushed them open. The entire inner garden was decorated with lanterns and kites. "My mother enjoys the Lunar Festival far more than my father thinks she should."

Mendingwall laughed under his breath as she led him up to the house. It was larger than his and the yard itself dwarfed many of the other Elven estates. "Your father must be very rich." Mendingwall said, humbled by the grandeur of her home.

Bellthaine scoffed and set her feet upon the porch; her feet barely made a sound on the hollow floorboards. "Hardly, everything you see here was a gift of service for fighting in the war. My father was a battle medic against the Legion at the human front. He paid for nothing, and yet he likes to think he owns everything and everyone in this house." She shook her head. "I suppose that's how a lot of nobles view the world. Like they're entitled to whatever they please."

"My father wasn't like that." Mendingwall said with a shrug.

"What was your father like?" Bellthaine cocked her head curiously and sat her elbows upon the gold-painted rails that surrounded the porch outside of the house. Mendingwall hesitated, but she beckoned him to sit with her on a nearby bench, close to a violet rose bush. He sat down as far away from her as he possibly could, but his body betrayed him and turned towards her. He blushed to himself and tried to organize his thoughts in front of this attractive young girl. It was easier said than done.

"My father fought in the war, too, but I barely remember him. I believe I met him once, when I was very young, during a festival. He was Captain of the Sentinels, then." He paused, glancing at her. She was leaned forward in a very unladylike manner, intent on his story. His eyes wandered to her pale chest and he caught himself, clearing his throat. "My mother says he died the summer after and was brought home in glorious colors. He resides underneath the willow tree in her garden, now."

"Does she ever lay down flowers there?"

Mendingwall looked at her in surprise. "Yes, every time the seasons change. How did you know?"

"My mother does the same. She lost her youngest, my brother, when he was only a few weeks old."

"Oh." Mendingwall looked away. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too, about your father."

"It's no sore spot with me; I don't even remember what he looks like."

"That must be sad."

"How so?"

"Well," Bellthaine breathed in steadily. "If I ever lost someone, I would want to keep as many memories as possible of that person, for as long as possible. I would never want to forget. So I guess what I meant is, it's sad you couldn't share any memories with your father, to keep him in your mind."

Mendingwall shrugged. "My brother remembers him well enough, and tells me stories. I guess that's as close to remembering him as I'll ever get."

They spoke for another hour about many things, and Mendingwall found that even the most mundane of their conversations he was beginning to treasure. His head fought such feelings with such stubborn reason that it was warfare in his mind. Why would he ever let himself be sucked in by a noble girl of higher standing than him? What was the point of trying? The moment he was recognized as a threat to land and title, she would be whisked away, and he would be heartbroken. Such were the stories told by his teachers, to warn growing boys to tame their emotions and keep them in their place.

Mendingwall had lost track of the time when the great wooden doors opened again, and two towering figures walked into the Moonrunner estate, moving in harmony together. Mendingwall's back went stiff with alarm and dread when he recognized them. Surely, he was in trouble now.

He recognized the man immediately; he was tall, dressed in silvery, sky-blue robes with white hair that fell far beyond his waist, braided and set over his broad shoulders. His beard was well-trimmed and his wuthered brow was crowned with a golden circlet, a symbol of his title. He was Anarion, Bellthaine's father and High Priest of Elune, one of the most powerful men in Darnassus.

He held out his arm as he walked, and set upon it was the dainty hand of his wife, the lady Shaleme, violet-haired and dressed in white silken garments that nearly matched the paleness of her skin. She almost looked sickly to Mendingwall, and yet terrifyingly beautiful at the same time. Between the both of them, Mendingwall could pick out who had given Bellthaine her beauty, and the similarities between her and her father were the most apparent.

Husband and wife walked together to the porch, and Anarion then noticed Mendingwall and Bellthaine sitting together. He smiled warmly and approached them, guiding Shalame still to his side. Unlike her lord, she looked rather alarmed.

"Good evening, Bellthaine."

"Good evening, father." Bellthaine answered brightly. Mendingwall was amazed; she was not taken off guard at all by their appearance. _And why should she_? He scolded himself, forcing his muscles to relax. _We're not secret lovers. We've nothing to hide. We're not anything at all_. "How was your walk with mother?"

"Dull, as usual," Anarion answered with a hearty laugh, "but my love adores the flowers that bloom around the time of the Lunar Festival, as you well know." He brought Shalame's hand to his mouth and kissed it affectionately. "Perhaps you should go inside and rest yourself, my dear."

Shalame was hesitant, her eyes still warily placed on Mendingwall, but she nodded to her husband and honored him, entering the house alone.

"And who is this young man whom you have brought home to me?" Anarion asked. Mendingwall's cheeks burned bright red. _Brought home? Am I now a suitor?_

Bellthaine smiled. "No, father--this is my friend, Mendingwall Stormherald."

"Stormherald?" Anarion clicked his tongue and smiled. "My, my, you've grown, my boy. I remember your father well. He was a brave men, and we fought together under many of the most dire of circumstances. There was never a fiercer warrior than Kuja Stormherald."

"Thank you, sir." Mendingwall managed, heart still beating wildly.

"I wanted to show him the gardens, I hope that was all right." Bellthaine continued.

"Of course, of course." Anarion nodded generously. "Would your new friend like to stay for supper? I'm sure we have plenty to spare."

Bellthaine looked at Mendingwall expectantly, but he stood up quickly and bowed. "I'm sorry, but I can't. I've been out far too long. My mother will be expecting me."

He could see Bellthaine was disappointed, but he tried to ignore it, his attention still on the master of the house. "Your mother, of course. Give the lady Stormherald my regards, then, will you?" Anarion said, and gestured to Bellthaine. "Come along, little one. You've stalled your friend for far too long and it's nearly dark, you should let him go now."

"Yes, father." Bellthaine obeyed, and walked with Mendingwall to the outer doors. The awkward silence was killing him. He yearned to stay with her, but did not dare. She opened them for him and escorted him out.

"You will call on me, won't you?"

"What?" Mendingwall stammered, aghast.

Bellthaine's bottom lip pouted. Mendingwall's insides groaned. She was absolutely irresistible. "Call on me. I still haven't seen the harbors, you know, and you said you'd take me."

"I did?"

"You did, in so many words." Bellthaine pointed out, and smiled coyly.

"Uh, all right then...I suppose I'll see you--"

"You'll take me tomorrow?"

"T-tomorrow, I suppose I could..."

"We could go in the early morning?" Bellthaine pressed.

"I guess . . . I mean if you wish it."

"I look forward to it." Her eyes glowed brightly, and she slowly closed the door. "Tomorrow then, Mendingwall Stormherald."

"...Tomorrow then, lady Bellthaine."

The door was shut, he was alone--and his heart could not decide if it wanted to fly or break in two.


	3. Brother

**Chapter Three: Brother**

_You are absolutely crazy_.

"Shut up," Mendingwall told his conscience, irritated by the banter that continued involuntarily inside his head. The weather was brisk, still recovering from a cold night. It was the day after he had met the starry-eyed Bellthaine Moonrunner, and as he had promised, he was calling upon her in the early hours of the morning, before the sunrise. No one stirred this early, not even the hardworking Darnassian tradesmen. It was the perfect opportunity to be alone with the girl he had dreamt of the night before--the girl that seemed set on torturing him, for whatever reason.

_You are just a plaything. She'll get bored of you after a week_.

"I said shut up," Mendingwall muttered. He had considered the possibility. It would not be the first time a girl used him as a servant, manipulating him to get him to do whatever she wanted. Of course, he had been six years old at that time, and he certainly hoped he had grown enough to recognize danger when he saw it.

There was something formidable about Bellthaine. He had thought it over the night before; she plagued him even in his sleep. She was so beautiful and kind. She was far too good to be true. There had to be some underlying reason why she wanted to spend time with him. Perhaps to escape from a domineering family, or to rebel against her father, he did not know which. He told himself sternly that he was not a man to be played with as if he meant nothing, and yet he knew deep down, if Bellthaine truly did want to use him for her own reasons, he would not have objected for the mere opportunity of her company.

_You are truly pathetic_.

"I know."

_You're letting yourself get all worked up about a girl who doesn't care if you breathe. If you know what's good for you, you'll turn around right_--

"Good morning!"

Mendingwall looked up from his feet, and beheld Bellthaine awaiting him in front of her housegate. He was taken aback by how very small and petite she truly was. Her tiny frame had been hidden by her billowing robes the day before, but now she wore a simple, patched pair of pants and a blue vest over an old white shirt. Her hair was tied up into a bun, out of her face, but unruly strands of it tickled her cheeks. Her sandals were worn and she looked as common as the daughter of a fisherman.

"What?" Bellthaine asked, after a pause. Mendingwall realized he had been gawking and kicked himself inside.

"Sorry." He muttered. "I guess I just never figured you had--"

"Clothes like this?" Bellthaine finished for him, and Mendingwall nodded. "Why draw unnecessary attention, or ruin the pretty things my mother made for me? All I would hear of, for the next week, was how she slaved over my gowns. It would be nothing but a headache."

"You're very strange."

"Why? They're just clothes."

"No, I mean...you're not like a lot of other girls."

She tilted her head. Her neck was so slender, no longer hidden beneath her hair. Mendingwall ached. "How so?" She asked.

"Not a lot of girls want to go to the harbor. It smells like fish, and it's rather dirty. The water's too murky to swim in and the smoke from the dwarven ships hurts your nose. I mean, you just seem like the type who would...you know, rather read a book, or something."

Bellthaine crossed her arms and smiled coyly. "If I were like the other girls, would you be standing with me right now?"

"Probably not." Mendingwall admitted.

She laughed. "Well, then, why are you complaining? If you want, I'll talk about something boring like politics, or how to hem a skirt so that I'll seem more normal."

Mendingwall laughed with her, despite himself. "I guess that would be all right. I've always wanted to know how to hem a skirt. Mine keeps ripping."

Bellthaine giggled and they walked together across Darnassus, to the winding road that led down to the side of the World Tree. It's trunk was immersed by the sea, and so the Elves had constructed a fishing village and built a harbor out of its side. It was from this village, named Ru'theran by it's founder, that the Elves conducted trade with both the Dwarves of Ironforge and the exiled Draenei people on their island of Azuremyst.

Mendingwall had journeyed there several times, the last of which was to bid farewell to his brother, Manolios, who was to travel abroad. They chatted and kept pace with one another until the little huts of Ru'theran were in view around the bend. Mendingwall pointed to her. "There it is. You see?"

She was such a strange girl. The docks were nothing special, even to young boys, but she seemed absolutely fascinated, and began to run. Mendingwall hesitated and then ran after her. She was surprisingly fast, for a girl. She slowed when they reached the end of the docks, not even out of breath as she gazed out on the tranquil sea. "It's so beautiful."

"I guess it is." Mendingwall acknowledged dryly. "Wouldn't you rather go somewhere else? The smell is even making me nauseous."

Bellthaine shook her head fiercely and sat down, dangling her legs over the edge of the water. Silvery fish flitted back and forth as if to chase the soles of her feet, and she giggled at them. "How big is the sea, do you think?"

"Wow." Mendingwall plopped down on his bottom beside her. "You really don't get out much, do you? There are such things as maps, even for noble girls."

She elbowed him smartly. "No, silly, I've seen maps. But that's only what we know is out there. How many other continents could there be?"

"I don't know." Mendingwall shrugged. "Several maybe."

"Do you think we'll ever get a chance to see them?"

Mendingwall chuckled. "Probably not, unless you know how to commandeer a ship and a crew, and have enough rations for an entire year."

"Why a year?"

"We may have just met yesterday, but I can tell. You would get lost."

Bellthaine mocked a gasp. "Why, Mr. Stormherald, how could you say such a thing? I have a very keen sense of direction."

"Oh yeah?" Mendingwall smirked. "Which way is Dolanaar from here?"

"That's easy." Bellthaine stated and pointed West. "That way."

"Nope." Mendingwall laughed, reached out and adjusted her aim, pointing South. "That way, actually."

"Oh, you're so cruel!" Bellthaine pouted and nudged him again at the shoulder, blushing. "All right, so maybe I would get lost. But you came with me, I think I'd be all right."

"Rather a bold thing to say." Mendingwall said, suddenly feeling uneasy with butterflies in his stomach. "You only met me barely a day ago, and you're all ready to set sail with me? For all you know...I could be a pirate."

"Hah!" Bellthaine bantered right back at him, her face glowing. Mendingwall did not know it, but his face did too. "You could never be a pirate. I remember the spar with your arrogant friend, Zavrus. You were positively bored out of your skull. You would probably rather die than ever wield a cutlass."

"How do you know?" Mendingwall demanded.

"I could see it in your face, of course. Your far too intelligent to be a dumb old warrior."

"No, I mean, how do you know I was bored?"

"Oh, well...I don't know. You just seemed like you'd rather be doing something else."

Mendingwall adjusted his feet to hang over the dockside with her, staring at the water below. "Not really. I mean, usually I would be." He shrugged. "But you and your friends were there."

"So?"

Mendingwall fought back the red in his face, and could not look at her. "Maybe I wanted to impress you." He muttered. His conscience was screaming at him.

Bellthaine laughed, her voice as sweet as a bell. "You liar," she nudged him. "Dhessica and Evetheres are far more winnable than me. Why would you ever have wanted to impress me?"

"In all honesty, you're prettier than they are. And more interesting. Dhessica...well...she scares most of the other boys. And Evetheres' voice is so dull I wanted to fall asleep when she talked."

"I can't argue with you there." Bellthaine giggled.

They sat together quietly for a while, and the sun came out, gently kissing the horizon with brilliant colors. The wind caressed Bellthaine's face and she breathed in deeply, her face pure with contentment. Mendingwall could not help but watch her, his voice taken away by her appearance. The sunlight glittered upon her pale face like mithril silver.

She glanced at him and smiled. "What's the matter?"

"You're very cruel."

She blinked. "How so?"

"You torture men with your beauty."

"The sun has barely risen and it's already playing tricks on your mind." Bellthaine teased, and stood to her feet. "Well, come on, let's prove me unbeautiful to you."

"What?" Mendingwall was very confused.

"Teach me how to fight."

"You're joking, right?"

"No." She set her arms behind her hips and bounced on her heels. "My father never taught me how to defend myself, he's always been far too busy overwhelming me with study. He seems to think I'll never leave Darnassus, never experience danger." She paused and crossed her arms. "Don't look at me like that, Mending. It's simple enough, every girl should know how to fight off an attacker. I know you are chivalrous enough to agree."

"All right, I'll teach you, if you promise me something." Mendingwall said, somewhat irritated by how difficult she was being. She was trying to make herself unapproachable, and yet she was still reaching out to him. It seemed as if she was just as confused as he was. "Don't call me Mending. It's rather condescending. Only my mother calls me that, and I hate it when she does too."

"Oh. All right." Bellthaine agreed sheepishly. "Well, Mendingwall is an awful mouthful. Can't I call you something shorter? Howabout Mend?"

"I think I can handle that." Most all of his friends called him that anyway. "What do you want to know?"

"How do you punch?"

"You seriously don't know how to punch?"

"Books, remember?"

Mendingwall sighed. "Okay, stand like this, first." He planted his right foot ahead of the other, holding his fists together tightly. Bellthaine mimicked him awkwardly, but he found it endearing that she was trying. "No, you have to hold your fists like this." He came towards her and adjusted her hands into the proper position. "And always remember to hit with the first two knuckles. If you hit with your whole hand, you could break it."

"Okay. Now what?"

"Hit me right here." Mendingwall opened his palm and braced himself, but Bellthaine's strike was rather pathetic. He held back laughter, biting his lip. "Okay....that was....good..."

"Oh, don't lie, it was terrible."

"Try again."

Scowling, Bellthaine swung at him, but missed sorely and lost her balance. Mendingwall began to laugh but his amusement was cut short. Her sandals slipped on the slick dockboards and she fell, her face twisted in a silent cry, into the water below. Mendingwall panicked and dove in after her, calling her name. The sea chilled his bones as he grabbed hold of her waist and brought her up to the surface. She gasped and coughed for breath. Despite its calm exterior, the harbor was a dangerous place for children of any age. There was no bottom for their feet to rest upon; the World Tree of Teldrassil had roots that ran deep and straight down, and so the water was dark, and it was said unseen monsters could easily hide in the murky depths below.

Monsters were the last thing from Mendingwall's mind as he pulled Bellthaine to shore, resting her upon the side where the World Tree's bark mixed with soft grass and sand. "Are you all right?" He asked, soaked and dripping from head to toe.

"I'm fine. I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy." Bellthaine said, coughing still. The saltwater burned Mendingwall's nose. "Are you all right?"

It was not until the fog of that small particular adventure had cleared that Mendingwall realized he was practically lying on top of her, and quickly jumped away, settling with crossed legs beside her. "I'm sorry, I did not realize..."

"It's fine, really. I don't mind." Bellthaine managed, able to breath again. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"I'm not a very good swimmer."

"Your parents never taught you anything, did they?"

Bellthaine shook her head fervently and began laughing. After a moment, she moved closer to him, shivering. "I don't know how I'm going to explain these wet clothes. Even if they're worth nothing, my mother will be furious."

Mendingwall thought to himself and grabbed Bellthaine's hand, gently lifting her to her feet. "Quickly, follow me."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Stormherald estate was still quiet with the dawn as Mendingwall crept into his home, Bellthaine still wet from head to toe from her accident moments before. The birds began chirping quietly with morning greeting. "Take care, the stones here are slippery too." He whispered, and took her hand to lead her behind him. They tiptoed through the hallway, and once in his room, Mendingwall breathed a sigh of relief. His mother would not wake for several more hours.

His room was very simple, as are most boy rooms in comparison to the opposite gender; he had a bed with linen sheets and a downfeather blanket, neatly made, a desk to write and study upon, and a dresser for all of his clothes. He dug through his drawers carelessly, and brought out a large white shirt and a pair of his trousers. "Um..these might be a little big for you." He admitted. "But they'll do for now. We'll hang your clothes out on the line, so that you can change into them again before you go home."

"Won't your mother notice?"

"I do the laundry around here." Mendingwall said proudly. "My mother is very weak at times, and so I run the house." He quickly grabbed a pair of clothes for himself and walked outside, slowly shutting the door behind him. "I'll wait outside so that you can change."

"Thank you."

Mendingwall fumbled with his trousers as he tried to change as quickly as he could; his wet clothes flopped on the floor in a dribbling mess and he pulled his shirt over his head just as Bellthaine opened the door. He adjusted his belt and turned to greet her--only to struggle to hold in his laughter. His clothes covered her from head to toe, so loose and baggy that they seemed to engulf her tiny frame. She smiled and turned around, nearly losing her pants. "What do you think? I think I'm stylish."

"Y-yes, you are very stylish." Mendingwall snorted, and held out his arms to take her soaked clothes from her. "Come on, I'll show you where we'll hang these."

The Stormherald gardens were much smaller than Bellthaine's, but just as beautiful and bright. Strung from a tiny oak that stood in the shadow of the willow tree to a glorious birch in the corner was a white wire and clothespins; with expertise, Mendingwall hung both of their garments out to dry in the morning breeze. "It might be a few hours," he said sheepishly.

"I have all day." Bellthaine reassured him, and plopped down on the lone bench near the koi pond, where brilliantly colored carp moved to and fro in the water as one group, speckled orange, red, brown and white. "Your home is lovely."

Mendingwall scoffed as he adjusted the clothesline to make it sturdy. "Nothing compared to the House of Moonrunner, I'm sure."

"No, I'm serious." Bellthaine insisted, and let down her hair. It spilled over her shoulder like blue wine. She smiled at him anxiously and brought out a silver-stoned comb from her pocket. "I borrowed it from your room, I hope you don't mind."

"Oh." Mendingwall sat down by her and leaned his back against the wooden frame, watching as she ran it through her thick, twilight strands. He was tempted to reach out and twirl it around his fingers; it looked far smoother and softer than silk. "You can keep that if you want. I never use it."

Bellthaine was both delighted and bemused. "No wonder your hair is such a mess. Come."

"What?"

"Sit down in front of me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to choke you with my sleeve." Bellthaine said sarcastically, and grinned. "I want to brush your hair."

"Ugh. No thank you." Mendingwall's thoughts flashed back to his childhood, when his mother insisted upon combing his unruly hair every morning. It was painful and the closest thing he could compare to physical torture.

"Please? I promise I'll be gentle."

"Very well," he grumbled, and moved to the floor in front of her. Such a gesture he had thought innocent enough, until she had him come closer, and he could feel her legs against his arms. Furiously blushing, he kept his eyes straight ahead, and felt Bellthaine's fingers in his hair. He braced himself, expecting horrendous pulling and tugging, but was wonderfully disappointed. She had kept her word; her touch was soft and embracing. She stroked his hair with her free hand and gently moved his comb through his hair with the other. There was no pain, only a pleasant shiver that ran down his spine.

"Now, is that so bad?" She asked quietly, steadily working through every knot without so much as straining it.

"'S good." Mendingwall murmured, near incoherently. His tongue must have melted in his mouth.

_Wake up, you idiot. You're exactly where she wants you._

_I really don't care. _Mendingwall challenged his conscience, still thrilled with the feel of Bellthaine's touch. He closed his eyes and felt her strokes upon his head cease. Her fingertips brushed against his neck, down to his collarbone. He trembled and heard her shift her weight. Both arms came around him, embracing him. He felt her chin rest upon his shoulder and her damp hair against the back of his neck.

"This really isn't fair, you know." He breathed in a whisper. The warmth of her breath on his skin clouded his mind with thoughts he had never before encountered--pleasures he had never dared hope for. He knew he was completely at her mercy, vulnerable, defenseless against her, and he dared to hope that perhaps she held that same powerless feeling in the depth her mind and in the pit of her stomach.

"I know." Bellthaine murmured, her cheek against his shoulder now. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you here with me? Why are you doing this?"

"I can't help it." Bellthaine's voice shook. The sound was overwhelming. "When I saw you, I knew I had seen you before, a long time ago. It was as if someone was speaking to me. Telling me I belong." She pulled away from him. "It was foolish of me, though. Dreams and voices. I got so caught up, and..." Her voice stopped in her throat. "You must think I'm a horrible person."

Mendingwall turned to face her, still on the ground, craning his neck to look into her face. She was holding back tears. His conscience warned him again, screaming manipulation, but with one powerful thought he silenced it forever. She had to be speaking the truth. "You're nothing close to horrible, Bellthaine."

"You should be angry with me." She insisted. "I had no right to touch you like that."

"Maybe I should be, but I'm not." He rose to his feet, and held out his hands. She took them nervously and he pulled her close. "To be honest with you, I know we've met before. I've dreamt of you. Everything in my head tells me to stay away from you, but I can't. I don't know why, but I feel like I've known you forever. Perhaps in another life, I knew you. But there is something...familiar for me here."

Bellthaine reached up and stroked his face. "Can you bear for me to still call you my friend?"

"I'll be whatever you want me to be." Mendingwall said.

The words seemed innocent and dear, but to him it was a vow. He had never believed in love at first sight--it did not exist, it could not. It was impossible. And yet here, with Bellthaine before him, it was as close to it as could be explained. Lovers in a past life, a possibility. Bound by something stronger than fate in their youth, a possibility as well. Against his will he had been drawn to her, pulled in by invisible tide until waves came crashing down.

Bellthaine wanted to kiss him; he could tell by the look on her face. But she held herself back, instead, and rested her head upon his chest. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"What's that?"

"I hope our clothes never dry."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was several days before Mendingwall could see Bellthaine again. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a vow of secrecy. They were friends to all other eyes, as children often are, but something more when no one was watching, holding flames within their hearts for one another, unconfessed and yet known all the same. Mendingwall did not want to bear the wrath of Bellthaine's father for revealing his intentions at such a young age--as Elves were near immortal, it was traditional for all to accept that there was more than enough time for courtship and marriage, and marrying young was frowned upon.

It was the beginning of evening, and Mendingwall had nearly finished all of his duties around his mothers' house when he heard her ring the bell. It was a little handbell he had given her to summon him when she needed assistance, and she was very generous with it. With a sigh, he dropped a basket of vegetables he had been gathering in the night air, and sauntered to her bedroom.

Nemariel was weak, but still beautiful. Her markings stood out like stars and she still held a strong presence, even when her body was withered with bitterness. She had never recovered from his father's death. Instead, she had shut herself off from the world and never ventured out into the city. Her eyes were sunken in from constant mourning. Whatever anyone said in their gossip of Nemariel Stormherald, she was the truest of wives, faithful to the last, even as her spouse lay in unending sleep under the willow tree.

"Mother?"

"Mending, I was just looking through our mail this evening, and I recieved this from your brother, Manolios." The faint lines on Nemariel's face seemed to be curved in a smile. "He is to be returning home, with a new wife of good family within three days. We should mark his return with celebration. Do you think you can manage such a task?"

Mendingwall's stomach dropped with displeasure. "Of course, mother." He managed.

"I would like for you to invite all of my friends. I have a list of them on the vanity beside my bed--and I'll write out an order for you to drop off at the tailor's off course, for my gown. And I think you should be prepared to give up your room, since you have the larger bed and he isn't coming alone."

Mendingwall groaned inside. "Yes, mother."

"You should plan to dress your best."

"Yes, mother." Mendingwall paused. "Would it be all right if I invite a friend of mine, as well?"

"Of course, dear, of course. I'll be up and about with you tomorrow morning to supervise the decorations. Now," she breathed in a deep sigh, "let me sleep."

Mendingwall bowed in respect and exitted her room, quietly shutting the door behind him. The temptation to bang his head against the wall was overwhelming. The next few days were going to be absolutely unbearable.

As a child, Mendingwall had idolized Manolios, his older brother by two centuries (or nine years if you wish, for better human understanding) and had followed him everywhere, mimicked his every movement. Manolios had held him in affection as well and watched over him.

But once Manolios reached the mark of his teenage years, something drastically changed one summer, and he no longer wanted anything to do with Mendingwall. He became bullyish, and would burden him with unnecessary chores, blackmail him when he would break one of his mother's pitchers, put him down whenever he achieved something that his mother found marvelous. In Mendingwall's mind he grew more arrogant each year, and he avoided him like the plague until he was old enough to defend himself. When Mendingwall threw his brother against a wall and landed him a blow that nearly broke his nose, Manolios ceased, and the brothers did not talk to each other at all.

It was quite a relief to Mendingwall when Manolios left Darnassus to learn the ways of the solitary hunter. He smirked in mid-disgust. Manolios was always nicer to animals than he was to people. He wrote to their mother every month about his escapades, but Nemariel was wise enough to keep such adventures to herself. She knew of their tribulations and never did anything to aggravate their relationship further, although she vehemently hinted that she wished they would forget their differences and become a family again, being the only sons she had and all that remained of her line.

So now, it seemed, that Manolios had tricked some poor young lady to become his wife. Mendingwall wondered if she was just as foul-tempered and arrogant, so that they would match, or if she was merely ugly and therefore the only woman in a thousand miles that would take such a hard man as Manolios. Either way, such a celebration was fated to be a thorn in his side, and the time would feel like a millenia. He wondered if they would be able to stand in the same room together without punching each other's lights out.

Still, there was some silver lining. His mother had given him permission to invite a friend, and that made him excited. Any chance to see Bellthaine made him happy, and the chance to possibly make his brother jealous with his beautiful companion brought all sorts of vengeful opportunities. He ran into his room and brought out a piece of parchment from his desk. He dampened his pen in ink and wrote in elegant letters:

_Bellthaine,_

_My brother is coming home married and my mother is throwing a party. I would be honored if you would accompany me._

_Mendingwall S._

He folded the parchment in half and set it in an envelope, sealing it with wax. As quickly as his legs could carry him, he flew through Darnassus into the heart of the city and climbed over the fence that encircled the house of Moonrunner. Silently, he slid the envelope through her closed shutters and crept away, heart beating wildly.

When he awoke the next morning, he found an identical envelope awaiting him on his windowsill.

_My dearest Mend,_

_I would love to accompany you in welcome for your brother. I hope you'll ask me to dance. I will wear my favorite gown and my mother's circlet. I hope you'll like it._

_Love always,_

_Bell_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Awaiting his brother's arrival at the harbor was torture.

There was an assembly on the docks, of people Mendingwall had known and grown up with, standing together since the breaking dawn. His legs felt like they would buckle underneath him by the time the boat appeared upon the horizon. Nemariel Stormherald was steadfast and the cheering could be heard through all Darnassus when the boat landed and was properly docked.

Mendingwall prepared himself for his unwelcome sibling, expecting a cold stare and harsh words. But instead, when Manolios finally appeared from below deck, he was taken aback. His brother was tall and noble in shimmering silver robes that were traditional for a new groom to wear for his first year. Beside him, in a billowing white gown that trained far behind her, was his bride.

She was far more than Mendingwall had expected. She was beautiful, tall and pale-skinned, with hair the color of emerald stone, cut short around her ears. She wore a bridal crown of gold and long earrings that brushed against her shoulders. With a faint, adoring smile, she took his brother's arm and he led her gently down the plank onto the docks.

Happily, Nemariel threw her arms around her eldest son's shoulders and cried in praise to his safe return, and embraced his new bride in welcome. "My son could not have chosen a more suitable bride. You are just as I imagined you."

"Mother," Manolios said with a smile, his eyes upon his lady, "this is my wife, Lycena Greenarrow, now the lady Lycena Stormherald, as she desires."

Lycena blushed as he addressed her. Mendingwall wondered if he and Bellthaine looked as ridiculous as they did, constantly staring into one another's eyes, oblivious to the world. He deducted that even if he looked like a complete fool, at least he looked like a complete fool when no one else was watching.

"Mendingwall, come and greet your brother." Nemariel bidded, her eyes glowing hopefully.

Reluctantly, Mendingwall stepped forward and held out his hand to his older brother. "Welcome home." He said shortly.

Manolios stared at him wordlessly, and then wrapped his arms around him in a crushing hug that made Mendingwall gasp. "I have been mostly unkind to you for all of my years." He whispered into Mendingwall's ear. "I was wrong, and I hope that I can make it up to you, my brother."

He pulled away and Mendingwall stood there in a stupor. "S-sure." He managed.

"This is my brother, Lycena." Manolios introduced, taking his bride by the hand and bringing her closer to his side. Mendingwall bowed to her stiffly.

Serene, she smiled. "I've heard so much about you, Mendingwall. Your brother does nothing but sing your praises."

Mendingwall wanted to choke. "I very much doubt that."

Nemariel chuckled happily, gliding over to Manolios' side. "Mendingwall has organized a celebration in your honor, Manolios. Half the city will join us tonight. I hope the journey from Winterspring has not tired you."

"Oh, I?" Manolios shook his head. "Not at all. But Lycena shall need the afternoon for rest. She has not been feeling well."

Mendingwall glanced at her curiosly. Despite her glowing aura that became most newlywed brides, her face was paler than her skin, and her countanence was weary.

"Goodness, that's not well at all. Well, not to worry." Nemariel continued. "Mendingwall has offered to give up his bedroom to you both while you stay. Do I need to fetch a healer for you, my dear?"

"No, not at all. If I could just rest, I'm sure I'll be fine by this evening." Lycena said, smiling again. She seemed determined to disguise any sort of illness she had contracted. He wondered for a few moments what it could possibly be. Nausea, from the voyage, perhaps? It hit him square in the eyes when he marked the way his brother stood uneasy as their mother continued to prod for information.

"Very well." Nemariel finished. "Mendingwall, take Manolios and your new sister to our home. Help them carry whatever they need."

"Yes, mother." Mendingwall obeyed and picked up several baggages, balancing them under his arms. They walked down the road together while their mother continued to instruct the crew on how to unload the necessary belongings. He rolled his eyes. Why was it, nobles had to bring their entire inheritance with them wherever they went? It seemed a complete waste of effort.

"So, she's pregnant then?" He voiced, once they were away from the docks and out of earshot.

Manolios stared at his brother with his mouth open. "Is it that obvious?"

"She looks sicker than a dog. Of course it's obvious." Mendingwall countered. "Is that why you married her, so that she would avoid shame?"

Manolios scowled and quickened his pace to match him. "Not that it's any of your business, but I had been courting Lycena for two years and we were planning to wed anyway. It was just something we weren't expecting."

"Are you going to tell mother?"

"Of course I am. I was planning on announcing it at the party tonight."

Mendingwall sighed as they approached the estate. He opened the door and threw the baggage into the hallway. "Hey!" Manolios protested. "Careful, those things are quite valuable!"

"Maybe you shouldn't have brought your entire house with you. Things could get broken." Mendingwall lectured, and left to return to the docks and bring the rest of their belongings.

"Mendingwall?"

He paused. "What?"

Manolios hesitated. "I meant what I said. I'm very sorry for how I treated you before I left. You looked up to me. I knew it, and I failed you. It was very wrong."

"Please." Mendingwall scoffed. "There's no need to be overdramatic. You are my brother, we don't get along. That's all."

"You won't say anything about Lycena, will you?"

"Of course not. What would it gain me? I'm no snitch."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Ever." Mendingwall retorted, slamming the door behind him. He brooded, sauntering back down the road for his second trip. He was not sure what annoyed him more--his brother as he knew him before, or his sudden change in nature. Both, he decided, were very frustrating.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	4. Warning

**Chapter Four : Warning**

There are few things in this world that are more elegant than a festive Kaldorei celebration. Violet paper lanterns hung upon the rooftops from strings, swaying in the gentle evening breeze. Flames of torches fluttered and danced as if they were alive. Timid wisps hovered and chased after shadows. Song and laughter were light upon the air that surrounded the Stormherald Estate. Noble ladies wore colorful evening gowns that trained across the garden floor and sleeves that fell far from their slender arms, while their men wore high-collared robes of authority in shades of blue, gold and brown.

Mendingwall was dressed in such garments himself, and found the tight neck extremely uncomfortable. He pulled at it when he was sure his mother was not watching--if she knew how he fidgeted in such noble wear she would only fuss over him until each fold was neatly pressed. He frowned and scoured the crowd obstinately, wondering if the toil he had put into such a celebration had been worth it. He had not yet seen Bellthaine. She had promised to attend; it was two hours past the time for guests to arrive, and he was growing impatient, hope fading rapidly into disappointment.

Manolios Stormherald and the lovely Lycena, of course, were enjoying the attention immensely. Only moments before had he made the announcement that his soft-spoken wife was with child, and the entire throng had broke out into hearty cheers. Mendingwall congradulated the both of them with awkward handshakes, and at one point was so anxious that he made a rather inappropriate joke. When his brother did not laugh, he cleared his throat and moved away, deciding it best to stay clear of his tense family for the rest of the night.

"Mend?"

He turned around so fast he nearly lost his balance, but his feet stood firm and he lost his breath instead.

Bellthaine Moonrunner stood but yards away from him, cheeks glowing and shoulders tense with her own anticipation. The gown she wore did not train, like those of the full grown women in the crowd of faces; instead, it was far more human in design than Elvish. Soft yellow and golden hues glittered like butterflies around her waist, and the sleeves that encircled her tiny shoulders were thin and made of lace, baring her soft, flawless arms. Her dress curved out from underneath her corset like a flower. Had any normal person laid eyes upon her, she would be mistaken for royalty.

"Wow," was all Mendingwall could find to say, something he would kick himself for later. "You look....amazing."

Bellthaine blushed and bowed. Her hair was pinned up in curls and crowned with a golden circlet, revealing her perfect neck. Mendingwall tried his best to ignore it--how could any man possibly look upon such features and resist the urge to kiss them? Instead, he threw such thoughts aside and held out his hand to her. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"I had to wait until my studies were finished." Bellthaine said apologetically, emberrassed. "And then my mother thought I'd look best in this silly thing. What I had in mind was more simple, but she would not listen--apparently I should be dressed as if I'm at my own wedding celebration, instead of someone else's."

"You're beautiful." Mendingwall reassured her, pulling her next to him and leading her through the crowd. It seemed as if everyone parted from their way to stop and look at her. His wish had come to life; Bellthaine was surely the most beautiful girl in their midst, matching even Lycena.

Elvish music carried upon the air, soft and sweet with lyre, harp and flute. The crowd broke apart into pairs, the tall and dashing alongside their lovely companions. Mendingwall saw Bellthaine blush as she grasped his arm, searching around in the sea of faces. "Everyone looks so happy." She observed faintly. "Your brother must be well-liked."

"That's one way of looking at it." Mendingwall smirked, hiding a very uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what she was longing for by the distant look in her eyes. "I would ask you to dance, Bell, but I'm terrible at it. I really don't want to emberrass you." Or me, for that matter.

Bellthaine drew closer to his side, her voice a whisper. "Take me then somewhere private. Where we can still hear the music."

"Why, milady Moonrunner, what a suggestion!" He teased her. "It's as if you wish to meet in secret. What exactly are your intentions? I will have you know, I am not so easily swayed by the beauty of a lady."

She giggled and nudged him with her elbow. "Please?"

"Very well." Mendingwall agreed, and once he was sure all attention was diverted elsewhere, he quietly led Bellthaine through the estate and out underneath the back archway, where the music, however faint, could still pleasantly surround them. The bushes that decorated the wooden walls of House Stormherald glittered with fireflies, while others flitted in circles around the paper lanterns, enchanted with the candlelight.

"Now what?" He asked, but Bellthaine had already taken both of his hands, squeezing them tightly.

"Now you can ask me to dance, without anyone watching."

Her hands were warm and soft to the touch. Mendingwall smiled at her. "I wasn't lying when I told you I was terrible at it."

"Have you ever tried?"

"Not especially, no."

"Then you can't know you're terrible, can you?" She pointed out, trying not to giggle.

"Very well." Mendingwall hesitated, and then moved his hand from her grasp to her waist. "I'm not sure if I'm doing this right." He admitted nervously, and, moving it further, settled it on the groove of her lower back. He entwined his free hand's fingers with her own and stared down at her, wondering if he needed further instruction in the matter.

"You're too far away." Bellthaine reassured him gently. "Closer."

He breathed in sharply and guided her closer to him as she asked; her stomach touched his and he swallowed, screaming at himself not to be caught blushing. He could see the anxious rise and fall of her chest; she was just as nervous as he was. He lead her around on the grass slowly, terrified of crushing her feet; but she followed him and seemed to nimbly escape his awkward steps.

"I'm so glad no one can see us." He said under his breath. They laughed together, still dancing slowly and ungracefully as youngsters, even Elven ones, often do. The music swept to its end in what seemed like moments, and they stopped. Mendingwall loosened his grip but Bellthaine did not break away, her eyes betraying her desires, flitting back and forth from his gaze to his mouth.

Mendingwall's conscience was screaming at him to take her back inside. _Don't even think about it! She is out of your league. AND she's probably spoken for. AND her father will kill you, and if he doesn't, YOUR mother will! _

_Give up already. _Shoving all reservations aside, he curled his other arm around her and brought her face up to his. She gasped as his grip tightened, and then their lips were moving against one another. Bellthaine's lips were softer than anything Mendingwall had ever experienced. Her arms moved up his chest and around his neck, fingers gently stroking his hair.

His conscience screamed at him furiously, keeping him in stride, not allowing him to press her for more. He broke away and felt her warm breath on his cheek, but her lips found his again strongly. The effects of her taste, her smell, the warmth of her body were absolutely intoxicating. Dizzy, he pulled away from her, afraid to lose control completely. "No."

She was alarmed by his reaction. "What is it, what's wrong?"

"I can't." Mendingwall murmured. "I shouldn't. I mean..." He sighed, scolding himself for his lack of articulacy. "You're engaged, aren't you, Bell?"

Bellthaine looked up into his face, confused. "What?"

"You. You're friends, all of you, you're...surely someone like you is already intended for someone else?"

She gently lifted his chin, and in shame he met her gaze. She was biting her lip, trying not to laugh. "That's what your worried about? My family, an enraged fiance?"

"Mostly, yes."

She became very solemn. "My father mentioned once he had someone in mind for me, yes. But I have never met him. I doubt I ever will. Our engagement was never set in stone; apparently the boy himself was greatly opposed to marrying me."

"That's understandable. He's never seen you." Relief quickly swept over Mendingwall. "You're very hard to resist when you're standing right in front of someone."

She tilted her head coyly and twirled her dress around her bare feet, turning away from him. The pale, near violet color of her skin shone in the evening light. "I thought you weren't easily swayed by the beauty of a lady." She said in a mocking tone, imitating him.

"A lady, no, never." Mendingwall agreed, joining her side. "Angel or goddess, maybe."

"You're overexaggerating. How mean." Bellthaine protested, nudging him with her elbow.

"Okay, maybe I was." He grinned. "Just a lady, then. A lovely, _tiny _little lady."

"Not fair, I can't help my size." Bellthaine giggled and against his better judgement, Mendingwall pulled her against him again.

"You're the perfect size." He reassured her. "Perfect fit."

"Mendingwall?"

Both of their bodies went stiff with surprise. Startled, Mendingwall whirled around and held his breath. Lycena stood before them both, Manolios rigid with eyes bulging beside her. "Oh!" Lycena exclaimed, and her face began to twist with what could only be amusement. "We're so sorry, we didn't mean to interrupt. I needed a breath of fresh air, so many people in the house...."

Manolios' face, on the other hand, contorted into an ugly mix of horror and disgust. "What...what were you--"

"Pardon," Bellthaine begged and bowed low. Her circlet caught moonlight and shone of diamonds. "I felt faint. Mend--I mean, Lord Stormherald was only accompanying me to make sure I was well. Weren't you, sir?" She stared at him tensely.

"Y-yes, of course." Mendingwall parrotted her, but his tone was not as convincing. "She's a friend of mine." He knew neither his brother or his bride were fooled, but at least they had not witnessed them earlier.

Lycena did not seem to mind the tryst in the slightest. "Well, all the same, we are very sorry to disturb you. We will give you some room to breathe, _won't we_, Manolios dear?"

"Of course," Manolios croaked, unhappy about it, his eyes fixed on his brother, boring into him like needles. "Perhaps we shall talk later than, Mendingwall, _after _you have escorted this young lady home. It's getting late."

Mendingwall felt his fingernail's digging into his palm as he gripped his fists angrily. "Very well." He said with finalty. "I shall see you inside."

"Alone." Manolios instructed sternly, and he took Lycena and they swept back into the gardens together.

"Vultures." Mendingwall hissed when they were out of an earshot.

"Perhaps you shouldn't escort me home." Bellthaine suggested sheepishly. "I'm sorry that I got you in trouble."

"Don't worry about him, he doesn't scare me. The only thing we'll be talking about is him, keeping to his own business."

"All the same, he was right about one thing." Bellthaine sighed. "It is getting late, and I should probably go." She paused. "Would you...come see me?"

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight?" Mendingwall hesitated. "I'm not sure if I can manage--"

"Please," Bellthaine interrupted him, her voice wavering.

Mendingwall breathed in deeply. "Very well. After my house has settled tonight and everyone is in bed."

"My window is on the farthest side of my house. I'll leave it open." She leaned up on her tiptoes and gently pecked his cheek. "I'll be waiting for you."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mendingwall did not bother to seek out his brother when he returned to the party; instead, he sat under the willow tree and brooded about his ruined evening with Bellthaine. His mind played the moment when he and Bellthaine had kissed over and over again, and his stomach squirmed uncomfortably with anticipation. He cursed under his breath and wished the guests would leave and his family, go to sleep. He did not know what to expect that evening, or what to do.

_Don't even think about it. _His inner voice growled.

_Come off it_. Mendingwall silently retorted. _I'm not going to do anything like that_.

_As if you wouldn't jump for it if she gave you the chance_.

_I wouldn't_. Mendingwall protested. He could not deny that he longed for more than the implication, but he was an honorable young man, and did not want to risk Bellthaine's reputation or throw her into shame.

"Mend?"

Mendingwall winced. He hated it when Manolios attempted to shorten his name. His tone was never friendly. "What?" He muttered unhappily, sticking a fallen twig into the ground repeatedly in hopes of passing the dull time faster.

"May I speak with you in private?"

Not keen upon humiliation, Mendingwall reluctantly followed Manolios into the kitchen, where hired servants were cleaning pots and pans. Manolios bid them to exit and they obeyed. He paced the cold floor, the heels of his black boots heavy upon sturdy wood planks. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" He demanded, once he knew they were alone.

Mendingwall shrugged, knowing his indifference would infuriate his brother more, and sat down at the servant's table, setting his feet upon it. "I have done nothing wrong."

"Indeed!" Manolios scoffed, eyebrows raised skeptically. "Only compromised the daughter of one of Darnassus' most high ranking officials--the High Priest of Elune, no less! I know your mother told you to reach for the moon, but she is far out of your league."

Mendingwall rolled his eyes. "We were talking, nothing more."

"You jolly were not." In his travels, Manolios had caught a hint of what Mendingwall thought to be a Dwarven accent. This was not completely uncommon--Winterspring was a shared home of Dwarves, Elves and Gnomes alike. "I saw how you were holding her. Friends don't hold each other like that."

"You want the truth, brother?" Mendingwall retorted with a threat in his tone, standing as tall as he could muster. "It's none of your business."

"It is my business when you endanger our family."

"_Endanger_?!" Mendingwall fumed. "How is spending one night with someone I care about _endangering _anybody?"

"She is _not _yours to have and to hold, Mendingwall, she is probably already spoken for and you _know _that!"

"I already asked her!" Mendingwall shouted, heart beating wildly with rage. "You think I would've acted how I did if I wasn't sure?!"

"So she couldn't be lying to you?" Manolios asked, baiting him. "Using you, until such a man shows up and steals her away from you as swiftly as she came into your life!"

"Is that what happened to you? Is that why you fled like a coward to Winterspring after that night you fought with mom?" Mendingwall demanded, his voice rough. He had never wanted to hit his brother so badly before.

Manolios blanched. He was not used to his younger brother confronting him with such force. "Of course not," he sputtered. "I left because I wanted to. Lycena was....she's been my only--"

"Right." Mendingwall interrupted, filled with loathing. "You're lecturing me, about holding a girl the wrong way--apparently--when you _used _your wife before you even bothered to marry her--"

Manolios struck out at him and Mendingwall staggered backwards, holding his cheek with his hand. Manolios rasped, out of breath, shaking with his own anger. "I'm--I'm sorry." He stammered. "I shouldn't have--I didn't mean to--"

"Your no brother of mine." Mendingwall snarled and pushed past him.

"Wait, Mend, please."

"If you tell anybody about Bellthaine and I," Mendingwall hissed. He had never hated his brother before this, but enough was enough, and he was not going to be pushed around again. "I swear to all of the Gods of Azeroth, I'll tell everyone the truth about your precious baby."

He slammed the kitchen door away so hard it was nearly knocked off of its hinges. He cursed under his breath, his shoulders tense, and nearly ran into Lycena, who was walking in the opposite direction to find her husband.

"Mend, have you seen--"

"In the kitchen." Mendingwall snapped, trying to move past her.

"What happened?"

"Ask him about it. He can tell you all about his hypocritical, fatherly lecture." Mendingwall answered hotly and stalked down the hallway. Lycena followed him; he heard her footsteps and rolled his eyes. Only an obstinate woman would marry his brother so quickly--either that, or a foolish one.

"Mend, wait." She pleaded, and touched his arm. He slowed, holding his emotions back. She had not done him wrong, he knew, and would not give his brother the opportunity to hit him again for speaking rudely to his wife. "I don't know what happened between you and Manolios, but I promise you--he's only ever spoken well--"

"Don't bother, milady." Mendingwall could not help the cold nature of his own voice. "Lord Stormherald has made it perfectly clear I am an emberrassment to our family name."

"That's not true!" Lycena persisted, still kind despite his own manner. He steadied himself and let the tension in his shoulders drop. She was nothing like Manolios at all. "I'm sure he was just angry..."

"Does he punch you when he's angry?"

Lycena gasped. "Of course not--he hit you?"

"Not like I didn't deserve it." Mendingwall admitted sorely. "I guess I crossed the line a bit, but...he has no right telling me how to run my own life."

"That's true."

"What?" Mendingwall said, surprised by her answer. He was expecting he would have to defend himself more.

Lycena sighed, smiled at him, and took his arm. "Walk with me. You are as much my brother as his, now, anyway."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"He's a stubborn, stuck-up, arrogant jackass."

Lycena laughed in good spirit as Mendingwall fumed beside her, his cheek still smarting from Manolios' punch in the kitchen. "Sometimes," she allowed, "he can be. In truth, any man can be. You all have varied similarities."

"I hope you didn't drag me out here to stereotype me." Mendingwall grumbled as they walked through Darnassus together. He hoped to himself that when they returned, the guests would be gone, and he could be with Bellthaine again.

"Not at all," Lycena said, and patted his shoulder. She seemed easy enough to warm up to; and her soft, motherly nature made him feel more comfortable than he normally would in the company of a new family member. "I just thought we should talk, about your brother."

"What about?"

"I don't know, whatever you want, really."

Mendingwall paused and glanced at her. "Did you marry him because he used a bear trap on you, and wouldn't release you otherwise?"

Lycena laughed. "Of course not--he wasn't so crude. He talked me into an evening walk, kind of like this one. Kissed me only hours after meeting me." Her eyes glittered.

"Doesn't sound like him at all. Not boring enough."

"Why do you dislike him so?"

"I thought we already clarified that." Mendingwall said flatly, and Lycena smiled and took his arm again.

"Give him time. As much as he wants to, he won't change overnight." She said, and lifted up her skirt to her ankles as they crossed a small bridge.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Mendingwall asked as Lycena stopped to gaze at the water.

"I wanted to talk to you myself. About your friend." Lycena said delicately to avoid angering him. "Bellthaine is her name, isn't it?"

"Yes." Mendingwall admitted grudgingly, wishing his family would drop the subject altogether. He thought of her waiting patiently in her bedroom, and the image of it made him ache.

"I like her. She seems like a very nice young lady."

Mendingwall scoffed. "You're not going to tell me about how she's out of my league, and how I should stay away from her and seclude myself to a convent thousands of miles away? Or perhaps, something to that effect?"

"Good gracious, no, those human convents are so filthy, the most humble have no sanitary concern at all." Lycena teased. She dipped her shoe idly into the water below, resting her elbows on the wooden railing. "What I was going to tell you was...simple, actually....just be careful. I've only just met you, and I don't want anyone getting hurt."

"Thanks for the heads up, but you don't need to worry about me."

"I'm not worried about you, as much as I am about her."

Mendingwall raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. "I don't understand."

"You're a very charming young man, Mendingwall Stormherald. Much like your brother." Lycena said gently. "I remember being her age. It's a very vulnerable time--and a girl's heart is so easily broken. If you pursue her, you must be relentless; never, under any circumstances, abandon her."

Mendingwall shook his head in disbelief. "I would never do that."

"You say that now. But would you be so brave in the face of her angry father?"

Mendingwall said nothing and felt a chill down his spine. He hoped to never confront Lord Moonrunner in such a way, and would strive to avoid such an unpleasurable meeting. "I didn't hit Manolios back," he managed, "but that doesn't make me a coward."

"It's good to hear. Remember your own words." Lycena said, satisfied with his answer. "It's the only warning I can give you."

After a long silence, Mendingwall cleared his throat. "It's getting late, I should take you home."

"Don't bother, I know my way." Lycena said, waving her delicate hand at him as if to gesture his leave. "I'm sure there's someone waiting anxiously for you about a mile or so from here." She smiled, eyes glinting mischievously.

Mendingwall could not surpress a grin. "You really just brought me here to--"

"Don't keep her waiting." Lycena interrupted, a smirk spreading across her face. "And it would be wise to return home before dawn, so that you aren't caught."

Mendingwall bowed graciously. "Thank you, milady."

"No thanks needed, young Mend." Lycena bowed in return. "Despite anything that happens, you will always have a friend in me. Unlike Manolios," she winked, "I remember what it's like, to be young and in love."

Mendingwall nodded and took off in a full run in the opposite direction of his house, feeling as if his feet had wings, and made note to himself to apologize to his brother for his harsh words--about Lycena, at least. She was not deserving of any discord.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was two hours past midnight in the city of Darnassus. The moon cast light through the trees and settled on the waters of the Moonwell beside the temple. The archways loomed, ornate with Elvish text and symbol, in shallow darkness. Ancient protectors, moving trees that spoke and rumbled, swayed quietly to themselves, their giant limbs occasionally creaking as their roots shifted in the ground. The city smelled thick of pine and lavender.

Mendingwall's eyes shone as brightly as a cat as he leapt silently through the sleeping city, up the paved cobblestone roads towards the House of Moonrunner. No lanterns shone upon the High Priest's walls, and he knew the entire family was asleep. He crept up the stairs as quietly as he could, the sound of his footprints drowned out by the music of crickets. He steered away from the large archway that beheld the large double doors, and passed window after window. All of the elegant wooden shutters were closed, save the very last one on the far left, where the house began to curve around to meet its other end in a crescent. There, in the window, was a single little candle, burned nearly to its end in the darkness.

Mendingwall checked behind him and slowed his pace under the windowsill. With a single skilled movement, he hoisted himself up and over, falling clumsily on a bed softer than anything he had ever owned. The mattress was stuffed with swan-down and the blankets were made of silk.

He was greeted with a tiny moan. He tensed, sucking breath in sharply, and felt warm, soft skin brush up against him. A pale hand touched his knee. "Mend?"

"I'm sorry it took so long, Bell. I hope you didn't wait up for me too long."

"I'm a lightweight," she reassured him, raising her head long enough to stare at him with one eye, her other covered with a mess of dark blue curls. "I fell asleep regardless."

Mendingwall took in his surroundings and felt his stomach flutter uncomfortably. She seemed completely unaware of how she looked, of how sitting in bed with her made him feel. "Lie down with me." She whispered. He hesitated, and then scooted himself under her silken blankets, resting his head on the pillow beside her. He was both terrified and exhilirated. If her father knew, he would surely be beaten within an inch of his life, or banished, or perhaps even far more horrible than either. It gave him an intoxicating rush.

Innocently enough, Bellthaine turned and cuddled against him, resting her head underneath his chin. Mendingwall's cheeks turned hot. "Do you ever dream of me, Mend?" She asked sleepily.

He rested his cheek against her hair and the tension in his body slowly ebbed. "Only when I'm awake," he murmured softly. "Then, it's just constant. Especially after tonight."

"Somehow, I've dreamt of you, always. Even before I met you. It was strange, and frightening. But you were always there in the distance...a stranger. I feel like I've known you all my life, but only just now know your name, the sound of your voice...and because of you..." She trailed off and pressed closer against him. "My dreams are stronger now, more clear. You clarify everything."

He averted his eyes from her form, wishing she was not so naive about his gender. "Dreamers are rare, you know." He whispered. "You must be gifted."

"Now I am."

Her lips brushed against his cheek, and he turned to meet them. His heart began racing as she brought her arms around him. Before he even knew what he was doing, his hands were wandering, mind dizzy with fierce passion, down her legs and up again, underneath her satin nightgown. A soft moan escaped her mouth as her legs crossed with his; his hands were moving up her back now and around to her soft belly--her lips fought harder for control, bidding him to do more, and he wanted to.

Her smell and the feel of her flawless skin were intoxicating; he had rolled on top of her now, pinning her down but holding himself up enough so that he would not crush her. Her fingers were in his hair, brushing his cheek, bringing him into deeper kisses by pressing against his neck. He felt as if his entire body were on fire--the sounds she made! Surely they would drive any man insane.

_No!_

Mendingwall caught himself and pulled away, panting. His body screamed for more of her, for every part of her, and he longed without remorse to make her his own, to be her first and only, but his mind would not allow him such desires. His thoughts drifted to Lycena, asleep next to his brother, and he regained his control. He would not allow Bellthaine to succumb to such a fate--a rushed marriage to cover a growing belly.

"I can't." He whispered, kissing her forehead.

"Why?" He could hear the disappointment in her voice and wanted to kick himself--throw Elven chivalry and honor out the window.

"It isn't the right time."

"But I want to."

"I know." Mendingwall slowly shook his head and sat up, ruffling his unkempt hair. "Maybe I should go."

"Please stay. I'm sorry," she pleaded, tears building in her eyes. "I shouldn't have pressured you."

"No, no!" He protested, touched her face. "Please, please don't cry. I want it just as much as you. I just....I don't want to rush things. Please understand, don't blame yourself. We have all the time in the world for this, I promise." He sighed, reluctant to leave her warmth, and the security she gave him. "But I don't want to get you into trouble."

"Please, stay with me?" She begged further still, eyes glowing in the night. Mendingwall hesitated, but surrendered to the emotions that bound him, and nodded. He pulled the sheets and down blankets over their heads and slipped his arms underneath her, holding her close against him, her back pressed to his chest. He sighed and tried hard to clear his mind, still fighting thoughts of her naked skin and the sound of her breathing, while the other part of his mind embraced them eagerly.

"Mend?"

"Hmm."

"I don't want to lose you over something like this."

He smiled and closed his eyes, telling himself over and over again that patience was a virtue, and gently kissed her hair. He knew there would be a day when he would not have to leave at the first sign of morning, or have to watch her from a distance while heads were turned. The sounds of the night lulled him to sleep. "You never will," he murmured into her ear, "Never." And then slowly, enamored with everything that had happened in that enchanted evening, they both fell asleep in each other's arms.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Mendingwall awoke, it was to the song of a dove and the sun's glow playing upon his face. He breathed in slowly, still caught between a world of dreams and reality, and looked through blurry eyes at his bed-partner. Bellthaine was sleeping soundly, her exposed back still turned towards him. He almost reached out and caressed her, but realization hit him and he sat up with a jolt, looking in horror at the sunrise. "Oh, no."

Bellthaine jumped with fright when he leapt out of bed and tumbled out of the window, knocking over her candle in the process. "Mend, what's wrong? What's happened?"

"I overslept." He peeked over the windowsill. "I'll see you soon, I promise."

"Hurry," she urged, and he flew down the porch that lead up to her home, under the archways and through the quietest streets of Darnassus. He came to a halt outside of his own land, listening carefully. He heard nothing, and sighed a breath of relief--his family and their servants were not yet awake.

As quietly as his feet would allow him, Mendingwall crept through the gardens on his family estate, removing his sandals to ensure his silence as he stepped upon the wooden deck. The morning birds began to chirp and sing. Feeling pressed for time, he quickly moved through the kitchen, inwardly praying that no hired help had seen him enter his own home.

"A late night for you, little brother?"

Mendingwall cringed, recognizing the voice immediately. In the faint shadows that fled from the coming sun, stood Manolios. He wore simple pants and an undershirt; Mendingwall felt envious. He was built like a saber. He had taken the time to braid the hair out of his face--he must have been waiting for his return for most of the morning.

"Or perhaps," Manolios continued smugly, "I should say, an early morning?"

"Shouldn't you be taming lions somewhere?" Mendingwall groaned, knowing he was caught but determined not to allow his brother the pleasure of knowing it.

"Did your mother know you were out last night?" Manolios probed, his voice dripping with sarcastic accusation.

"Not like you'll tell her, either way." Mendingwall shrugged.

"I think you're bluffing."

"Try it." Mendingwall offered, golden eyes blazing. "See if you're right."

Manolios opened his mouth but had no answer to give. Mendingwall smirked, feeling rather big-headed over his victory. He would never smear Lycena's name, but as long as Manolios did not trust him, he had such leverage as to keep him out of trouble. Manolios enjoyed far too much the title of eldest son--a little reminder of past grievances, Mendingwall decided, did wonders for their relationship.

"I'm sure mother will be awake soon, and will probably want to know where you were." Manolios continued, ignoring his comment, voice condescending.

"No, she usually sleeps for most of the day until late afternoon." Mendingwall scowled. "And before you get all high and mighty on me, I'll remind you that I'm now immune to your threats. While you've been off enslaving exotic animals," he strongly emphasized the insult, knowing it would make Manolios' blood boil, "I've been at home caring for her in your absence. I think I know how to run this house. Better than you ever could, I imagine."

Manolios threw up his hands in exasperation. "Always fighting," he said. "I didn't come all the way here to bicker with the likes of you all day." He gathered his thoughts, and tried to remain diplomatic. "I'm sorry for last night, it was wrong of me to react the way I did. I promise, it will never happen again."

"And I'm sorry what I said, about Lycena." Mendingwall grumbled. "She seems....nice."

"She told me you went to Bellthaine's last night."

Mendingwall's muscles froze and words escaped him. Manolios half-smiled, as if displeased by his little brother's lack of retorts. "Although my opinion is strongly against your....friendship with the lady Bellthaine....my wife seems to have confidence in you. I just want to advise you--again--of all the feminine forms in Darnassus, hers is the one you shouldn't compromise."

"It wasn't like that, we didn't do anything." Mendingwall snapped. "We're just friends."

"Friend of the opposite sex that you slept with last night?" Manolios taunted.

"You wouldn't understand." Mendingwall snarled.

"You're not a child anymore, Mend. I'm serious, if you were discovered, have you thought of what would become of her? Of you, our family? It's such a risk--"

"One that you were just as willing to take, Manolios Stormherald."

Surprised by her sudden presence but quick to regain his composure, Manolios turned to face, in Mendingwall's opinion, far better half. "I'm sorry," her husband apologized softly. "Did I wake you?"

"No," a wry smile crossed Lycena's face as she braided her hair to her side. She placed a hand on her slightly protruding stomach, well hidden by her white sleeping gown. "As a matter of fact, your son did."

Mendingwall watched awkwardly as Lycena stretched to kiss Manolios' lips. "I think you've forgotten," she said, her voice alluring like honey, "all the nights you risked your family name to visit me in the dark."

He choked on his own laughter, relieved and satisfied by Manolios' horror. "We were engaged to be married, Lycena," he defended himself poorly.

"And in love," she sat down at the servant's table to rest her feet, and grinned at Mendingwall. "Your brother is quite a romantic, you know. He gave me a beautiful tigress as an engagement present."

"Really?" Mendingwall sat down with her, thoroughly enjoying the twisted look of frustration and emberrassment on Manolios' face.

"Yes, and she just had cubs a few months ago. It was quite a learning experience--I am relieved to carry just one, since she gave birth to four." Lycena laughed, and then her eyes brightened. "Say, is Bellthaine fond of animals? Perhaps she would like a cub of her own."

"She might like that," Mendingwall said thoughtfully, not wishing to show too much enthusiasm in front of his brother. He was inwardly excited with the idea, knowing that she would be thrilled.

"Lycena," Manolios began unhappily. "I don't think--"

"Enough, Manolios, he knows you don't approve." Lycena chided gently. "It is not our place to challenge fate. Bellthaine is in Mendingwall's life for a reason--we might as well support him while she plays a part in it."

He went rigid and sighed. "As you wish." He kissed his wife's hand. Mendingwall glanced at her and nodded graciously. Such allies like Lycena were a support, indeed.


	5. Rival

**A/N: I would like to apologize for the delay in the latest chapter. The entire story is on my little USB keychain, and I lost the darned thing! *Headdesk* But, while going through the laundry basket - of all places, sneaky little thing must've slipped out of my pocket - I have found it again, and plan to be more prepared for the future. Here is Chapter Five, and THANK YOU for all of your reviews. I truly appreciate it! ~ V. S. **

**Chapter Five: Rival**

The cubs Lycena had offered were not the sort you humans are used to, at all. Nightsabers are powerful, regal creatures far larger than any common tiger or lion, and to the enemies of the Kal'dorei, far more menacing. They are considered the blessed of Elune, the moon Goddess, her beast of preference. In reverence to her they keep their heads low to the ground, but their shoulders match a grown man's in height, and their bodies are lithe with muscles and springs. Within their paws are the most deadly of claws, long enough to sever a man's head in one swipe--and two long tusks curve out from their jagged mouths. They are the perfect predator.

And yet for the Night Elves, they are the perfect transportation. There are many kinds of Sabers in the world of Azeroth, one hundred different variations of their magnificent species, and several of those variations have been tamed by Elves for companionship and riding. I have had the pleasure of befriending such a creature myself, but you don't want to hear about that, so I shall continue with the story.

Lycena Stormherald's nightsaber was a flawless specimen. Tigresses are quite larger than their perspective mates for survival purposes. Mendingwall felt quite intimidated by her size, for even lying down, she was massive, nursing four hungry cubs that dwarfed small children. "Don't be afraid," Lycena reassured him. "She's quite gentle."

She went forward and stroked the saber's head affectionately. "The cubs will be weaned within the week. Which one would you like?"

Mendingwall was not entirely sure. They all looked fairly alike--three of them like their mother with dark navy fur and white strips crossing their backs and foreheads, like lightning in the middle of an evening storm. The fourth looked quite different. It was smaller than the others, with the same dark fur but a dark spotted pattern was visible on its shiny coat, and its paws and underbelly were a mottled white. It broke away from its mother and whined, batting at a sibling's tail.

"What about that one?"

"Oh yes, the runt?" Lycena nodded. "He's got more stormsaber--looks exactly like his sire. He's quite a handful, and needs careful watching over. He tends to get himself into trouble."

Mendingwall smiled at the awkward little cub, which was now crawling and tumbling over his massive mother. "I like him."

Lycena smiled and picked him up, and handed him to Mendingwall gently. "Careful, he's heavy."

She was right. Mendingwall nearly fell backwards while trying to balance the cub's weight in his arms. The cub mewed and growled angrily, still wanting to nurse, and struggled. "Hey now." Mendingwall chided, and the cub looked up at him with wide, golden eyes, ne'er blinking. "You're a pretty fellow, now, aren't you?"

One paw rose and batted playfully at Mendingwall's chin. He laughed and set him down, so that he could finish feeding. But the cub did not move. Instead he retreated against Mendingwall's legs and looked up at him curiously. Lycena giggled. "Looks like you've made yourself a friend, dear."

Mendingwall would think so, had the cub not turned around and latched his small but lethal claws onto his shin, pinching his legs through his trousers. "I think he just wants to eat me." He said through clenched teeth, shaking the cub off of him.

"No, not at all. He's playing with you."

"Well, it's fine if he plays with me, but I don't want him hurting Bell..."

"He's only a baby and is inexperienced, but he is not a killer to our kind. As he grows, he will learn of his own power, and will be gentle." Lycena reassured him.

"Very well, I will take him, then." Mendingwall agreed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mendingwall was beginning to wonder if the idea of giving Bellthaine an adolescent stormsaber was ever a good one.

Seeing as the cub was still in its last stage of nursing, it would not be ready to leave its mother for a week, and so it stayed within the Stormherald household for the duration of that time. However, he was, as Lycena had warned, nothing but trouble. He had taken to shredding one of Lady Namariel's favorite bushes, and had sharpened his claws upon the willow tree that stood watch over his father's grave. He refused to sleep anywhere but in Mendingwall's bed with him, and when he went to visit Bellthaine by himself one evening, he returned to his irate brother, stating the cub had done nothing but cry and roll around on the floor for the hours that he was gone.

And so it was when he finally introduced Bellthaine to her glorious present, he breathed a sigh of relief, however a short one. The cub was enthralled by the attention Bellthaine set upon him, but when she took him home, he cried and mewed the whole night through.

"What are you going to name him?" Mendingwall asked when he saw Bellthaine the next day. They walked together down the paths of Darnassus on a pleasant day, with the cub trailing them, tumbling over himself clumsily as he found himself distracted by all of the natural diversions of outdoor life.

"Shadowfell." Bellthaine answered confidently. She checked around to make sure no one of great importance was watching, and slipped her slender hand into Mendingwall's grasp. He smiled and their fingers entwined, holding each other tightly, as if they were afraid to let go.

"What's the meaning behind it?"

"It just suits him." Bellthaine shrugged. "He explores the house in the evening."

"Ah." Mendingwall breathed in slowly, enjoying Bellthaine's company and the fresh air around them. Shadowfell had taken interest in a butterfly and had wandered off of the road, he noticed, and they followed him, entertained by his playful and curious behavior.

Together, they sat on a bench near the waterside that surrounded the looming Temple of Elune. White and black koi fish swam in large groups, shimmering in the crystal blue water. Shadowfell was absolutely taken with the thought of fish, and tried daringly to jump at them, only to be horrified by the water. He retreated gloomily underneath them, and Bellthaine laughed and rested her head on Mendingwall's shoulder.

"Mend?"

"Mm?"

"Let's run away."

Mendingwall turned his head curiously. "What?"

"Run away from here." Bellthaine's tone was even, and Mendingwall could not tell if she were simply dreaming, or truly imploring him. "Leave Darnassus, together. Travel the world."

"Are you serious?" Mendingwall blinked furiously as Bellthaine looked to him, eyes wavering. She bit her lip and nodded, moving closer to him. "Why...why would you want to leave?"

"Why not?" Mendingwall could not believe it; she was not only serious, she almost seemed as if she were begging him. "We wouldn't have to answer to anybody, and we wouldn't have to live forever in secrecy."

Mendingwall swallowed a dry throat, his mind a blur. The thought of leaving Darnassus with Bellthaine at his side was absolutely exhilarating--traveling the four corners, sleeping beside her every night without fear or guilt, marrying her--_Oh Goddess, marrying her_. His stomach churned, and he was not sure if he were more sick or excited by the thought of it. He imagined the night they had shared before, the warmth of her bed and the comfort of her presence. Every ounce of his mind, body and soul knew that it was what he wanted, more than anything else, to claim her as his own before anyone else did. He longed to do so now, to call her his mate and beloved.

He let his mind muse further, thinking of the possibilities such a future could bring. Perhaps his brother was not so wrong in his way with Lycena--and with no aristocratic rules to follow; he would not have to worry about shaming Bellthaine's name. They could wed when they wished it so, and do away with the old tradition that required a father's permission. They could build a life with just each other, work hard, and bear children.

He winced at the thought of children. Perhaps that was dreaming a little too far ahead. Nightmare, more like.

But reality set in shortly after such a daydream. Where would they run that the Sentinels, the Guards of Darnassus, could not follow? Surely the Lord Moonrunner would not stand for a runaway daughter with such a great name to protect. He looked to Bellthaine wistfully, caressed her face and kissed her gently. Even if they were not pursued, he had no great skill to rely upon to provide for her, and such a dainty creature could not be expected to work in the dirt alongside him. There would be no roof over their heads to protect them; they would be at the mercy of the gods with no money and nowhere to hide. He also thought of his mother, alone on the Stormherald Estate with no one to care for her in her condition.

No, he relented sadly. It was not possible.

"Bell..." He whispered, breaking away from her. She snuggled closer against him, and he brought his arm around her tightly.

"Please," she asked again.

"I'm sorry, Bell, but our lives are here." Mendingwall explained as gently and as lovingly as he could. "I am not trained in any art or profession; I am no good with a sword..."

"I could work," she protested.

"I know you could, but I wouldn't want you to have to. I would only want you to work if it made you happy, and not out of necessity." Mendingwall soothed, kissing her forehead. "I'm sorry, my love. My mother needs me here, your family needs you. Perhaps we can start planning for a life together here. We don't need to run away for that."

Bellthaine said nothing then, for a long while, deep in his embrace. He kept glancing at her, for fear that he had angered or upset her in some way, but she would not look at him, face hidden by her long tresses of silken hair. Shadowfell set his paw upon Mendingwall's foot and yawned sleepily. He sighed. "Should I go, then?"

"No."

"But you're not speaking to me."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

Bellthaine's eyes were hidden from him. "Yes," she mumbled at last, ignoring his question. "Perhaps I should go." She stood up from the bench, grabbing Shadowfell as he pawed at grass underneath them. "Don't trouble yourself walking me home." She said curtly, and walked away, dress trailing behind her.

Mendingwall watched her leave with a resentful on his face. "Bell!" He called after her, but she would not note him. He kicked a stone in the water with a growl. "Goddess, woman, what did I do?!" After that, he had nothing else to do but wander his way back home.

That night, Mendingwall had creeped onto the Moonrunner Estate, only to find Bellthaine's shutters were locked, and there was no candle set out in welcome. He brooded all that evening and late into the night, anger simmering through his veins until at last his stubbornness ebbed with the coming morning. His final thoughts before drifting asleep, alone in his bed, were of her, wondering if she was just as tormented by his absence.

When the dawn came, Mendingwall set out, saying nothing to his family as they still slept comfortably in their rooms. He was greeted on the doorstep, to his surprise, by Shadowfell lounging on the front step. He clicked through his teeth as he knelt to scratch the cub's ear. "She kicked you out too, huh?"

"Reowr," Shadowfell whined as he moved past, and the adolescent stormstaber clumsily tumbled after him.

On the docks of Ru'theran village, traders had set up shop for the week's ending, and soon the city of Darnassus was bustling with business. Mendingwall took Shadowfell in one arm, so that he would not be lost in the crowd. Boys that he had sparred in the warrior's practice ring hailed him, clapping him on the back when they saw hi, most mentioning the Lady Bellthaine. Mendingwall was not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed – gossip flourished, he conceded, and decided to say nothing to further any unhealthy rumors.

With Shadowfell resting paws on his shoulder, Mendingwall slowly made his way from the docks, passing the bank with sights on the Cenarion Enclave. He had thought long and hard about things the night before, and had come to his own conclusion. The warrior's life was not for him, but perhaps working with nature, animals and the like, would not only make him happy, but ensure a steady income and a name for him, therefore winning the favor of Bellthaine's father.

Crowds ebbed in this corner of Darnassus, where the trees seemed to grow taller, leaves rustling as if they were alive. Of course, some trees truly were—the Ancients, of War, Lore, and Nature, were walking trees, their limbs groaning with every step and leaves of purple left in their path. Mendingwall gawked at them as they passed over his head, and moved into the center of the Enclave. Carved into the trees were ramps leading to corridors that burrowed down deep in their trunks, lit only by paper lanterns.

The unusual amount of peace that came over Mendingwall when he stood there astounded him. He could hear water, wind, and the quiet footfalls of Druids as they moved barefoot over the grass. There was no road here, and the people were as graceful as swans, their leather robes the color of earth, green, and blue. He had seen Druids before at a distance, for his mother Nemariel had been one of their best, before she was weakened. _Perhaps druidry is in my blood_, he thought to himself, slowly approaching a pair walking together, man and woman, arm in arm. The man wore a mantle and a headpiece of antlers, while his lady was adorned with eagle feathers. They looked of great importance.

"Where might I inquire for a trade?" He asked timidly.

The Druids stopped and stared him down, sizing him up. The man cocked an eyebrow curiously. He was nearly eight feet tall, and towered above Mendingwall like the trees. "You look familiar to me." He said in a baritone voice, that reminded him of a tiger. "Do I know you?"

"Mendingwall Stormherald, sir." Shadowfell growled, and he hushed him.

A slight smirk came over the man's face, and he sent his lady on without him to walk alone. "You don't look like a Stormherald."

Mendingwall was unsure how to respond. "I've been told I look like my mother, sir."

"Ah, yes. My dear Nemariel rarely ventures back to the Enclave. I suppose I have nearly forgotten her face." The Druid stroked the long beard on his chin. "I suppose you are Kuja's boy, after all, though you have a leaner look about you. A trade, you say?"

Mendingwall nodded. "Well, I suppose I could see what I can do – anything for the offspring of an . . . old friend."

"And your name, sir?" Mendingwall asked, annoyed with the man's condescending tone and the sudden interest in his bloodline.

"Forgive me, it is a pity we have not met before. I am Arch-Druid Fandral Staghelm,"

Mendingwall's eyes widened at the name, and it seemed in his mind that the Arch-Druid suddenly grew taller, more foreboding. Aside from the High Priestess Whisperwind, he was the most powerful person in all of Darnassus, leader of the Druid's and his mother's superior. When he could not find anything to say, the Arch-Druid threw back his head and laughed heartily.

"No need to worry, my boy. Now, you were speaking to me of jobs. What did you have in mind?"

"Anything, really. I would just like to aid the Cenarion Circle in some way." Mendingwall stammered.

"Wouldn't the path of the warrior suit you better?"

"No." Mendingwall said flatly.

"Why?"

"Because I hate it."

Staghelm smiled. "Fair enough. I could make you an assistant, of sorts, to one of my most prestiged. But you would have to leave Darnassus."

"Sir?"

"My boy," the Arch-Druid said firmly, patting Mendingwall's shoulder with a strong hand. Shadowfell nipped at him, and he ruffled the cub's fir and bid them walk. "The life of a Druid is ne'er a stationery one. My Cenarion . . . well, they are sent to all parts of the world." He moved his hands across the sky. "Right now, some of my best are in Silithus, while others trek the plaguelands to try to recreate life that the Scourge has destroyed. You would travel wherever necessary, and aid them with whatever they ask. It is a harsh road, not for the weak."

Mendingwall swallowed. "So there's no chance I could aid the Druids here?"

"Best be an apprentice to a smith, or a tradesman if you wish to remain here." Staghelm shook his head.

"Would I be a druid?" Mendingwall asked.

Staghelm scoffed. "It is not a path you choose, my boy. It is something you are born with. Druid trainings begin at youth. Had you the makings, we would have ascertained it at your birth. You could be a Naturalist at best, and work for them always, but a Druid Warden, never."

Reluctant to leave Bellthaine, no matter the opportunity, Mendingwall let his hesitation cloud his tone. "Let me think on it." He said at last.

"Don't waste my time waiting," Staghelm warned. "My last Cenarion is embarking in three days. None will be returning anytime soon."

Mendingwall's thoughts wandered to Bellthaine, as he set the curious cub on the ground again to walk alongside him. He had spoken to her of starting a life together in Darnassus, of providing for her, when he knew very little of the ways of the world. He yearned to take her to wife—oh, how every part in his body felt like it would burst aflame—but it was not so easy. Not in that society, and he was still very young.

You see, my dear humans, Night Elf bloodlines, they believe, are the key to the continuation of their race. Since their fall to mortality, they are subject to disease, weakening and death, though they still live one hundred times the age of mortals. Good blood, to them, is very important. While renegades, tradesman, and rogues may bed and bride whom they wish with little consequence, their nobility have kept the ancient, traditional Elven way of partnership, to keep blood strong. So Mendingwall could not honorably take Bellthaine as his own without dishonor—no, he would have to earn it, and prove his worth.

His mind replayed their fight the night before, and Mendingwall felt a sense of guilt take over his gut. He did not know why Bellthaine had reacted so coldly, but he had treated her unfairly in retrospect on his end too. So with Shadowfell pouncing loose cobblestones behind him, he made his way to the hill, where the Moonrunner Estate, and hopefully a forgiving young lady, awaited him.

He was surprised to find that the entire house was awake and moving about so early in the morning. He passed Bellthaine's mother, who gave him a sour look of unwelcome as she spoke amongst others he did not recognize. Whatever discussion it was ended with his presence, and all stared at him. "Excuse me, my lady Moonrunner, but is Bell at home?"

"Inside, with her father," She answered stiffly.

Mendingwall sensed her irate, but bowed politely all the same before continuing through the threshold. They talked louder after he left, as if they wanted him to hear.

"Who is he?"

"No one of consequence."

"I dare say, he has an well-bred look about him."

"Nemariel's youngest."

"A Stormherald?"

"Yes. Bellthaine's latest pet."

Mendingwall frowned at the blatant insult from her mother, slowing his pace to let Shadowfell catch up with him. The little cub called for him unhappily, but Mendingwall bid him come, and he reluctantly did so. Ignoring any further remarks, he stepped through the hallway on the candlelit porch.

There were servants everywhere, moving to and fro with all sorts of things in hand—food and drink, lanterns, tables, chairs, looking as if they were preparing for a grand breakfast. He was nearly run into by a young maid holding a pitcher full of Elvish wine. She apologized profusely before hurrying on her way. The courtyard was being decorated with ribbons and paper, and it was there he saw Bellthaine beside her father, her elbow locked around his arm as they faced two men opposite them in a quiet conversation.

Mendingwall turned his eyes to the two strangers as he approached slowly, so as not to interrupt. The taller and bulkier of the two dwarfed even Manolios, with his white hair pulled out of a scarred face, firm and jaunt, touched with the wrinkles of his age and a grim countenance. He was armed to the teeth in silver and blue plate, and strapped to his back was a mace made of fine titan steel and saronite. It was one like Mendingwall had never seen, its hilt thick and heavy. He was surely powerful if he was able to wield such a weapon in combat.

The man beside him was shorter, younger, with a fair face, quaint brows, and an unreadable expression. His teal-colored hair was cut short out of his face and pulled out of his face, resting at the base of his neck in a messy tail. He too was armored, though lightly so, a longsword strapped to his waist. He turned when Mendingwall quietly joined him, and a pair of fiery, defiant golden eyes appraised his.

"Who have we here?" The older man asked in a bolstering voice. Mendingwall immediately took him for a leader, and a jolly sort of fellow, for a smile of welcome spread upon his old face, even though among his great wrinkles it did not look quite right.

"Ah, Mendingwall." Bellthaine's father, Lord Moonrunner, hailed him politely. "Welcome, welcome."

His eyes fell to Bellthaine, who looked absolutely horrified to see him there, not a single note of pleasure upon her face. She was wearing a light blue corset over a yellow gown that fell to her ankles. "Lord Duskblade," her father continued, "this is young Mendingwall Stormherald."

"A Stormherald, eh? Well met!" roared Lord Duskblade. "I knew your father, good Storm! Kuja was, without a doubt, the most mastered of marksmen; a true warrior and fearless!"

"Thank you, sir." Mendingwall managed. He never quite knew what to say when he was praised about his father, but he accepted it once again with grace.

"I nearly forgot. This here is Zanathar, Lord Duskblade's only son."

"And my pride and joy!" Lord Duskblade added with a loud laugh.

Mendingwall and Zanathar bowed respectfully to one another. "I am told," Zanathar said in a pleasant, level voice, "that I am to thank you."

"What for?" Mendingwall glanced at Bellthaine, confused. He had never heard of, nor met this boy of his age before.

"You have been a companion to Bellthaine, of course." There was a slight smile, with a hint of possession, in Zanathar's eyes. "I worried my absence and inability to write her these long months would prove unbearable to her, and so I thought to call off the engagement, but you have kept my bride entertained in my stead. And it is for that, I thank you."

Stunned. Shattered. Mendingwall could not think to utter a reply. In one moment the world had crumbled underneath him, sending waves of disappointment crashing down and washing all that he had hoped and planned for into darkness. Bellthaine had begged him to take her away, and know he knew why. He had refused her, unaware of the reason. He felt all the more foolish, knowing he was an obstacle in Zanathar's eyes, one that needed to put crushed, otherwise put in his place. He could only nod in response.

Bellthaine was watching him desperately, fighting back tears in her eyes. Her lip quivered, chest heaving as she held in what Mendingwall could only imagine as a scream. He felt like shouting himself, protesting everything, begging her father to call off whatever arrangement had been made with this Zanathar Duskblade. He watched as she snatched up the playful Shadowfell off of the ground, turned, and fled the courtyard without a word.

"Shy child," Lord Duskblade said with a nod.

Zanathar's pleasant face was now clouded with jealousy. In his eyes burned arrogance that Mendingwall immediately disliked, alongside a rival's curiosity, sizing him up as a fighter in a tournament might his opponent. Mendingwall let him wonder, a shred of himself still clinging stubbornly to hope, standing as tall as he could. He grinned at the boy almost impishly, and Zanathar smiled right back in the same manner. The unspoken skirmish between them was louder than any tongue.

_You are no longer needed, whelp. I suggest skipping along home._

_I'm not going anywhere._

_Bellthaine is mine. You have served your purpose._

_No. She gave herself to me, not you. Me._

_Impertinent fool, perhaps I should whip you and show her what a weakling you truly are._

_Beat me to a pulp, and it won't change anything. She'll only hate you more. I could have had her already if I wanted._

To the ladies who read this, men often have silent standoffs like such that you may never understand.

"Well then," Lord Moonrunner had been chatting idly with Lord Duskblade as the boys stared each other down. "Breakfast will be served to us soon." He glanced at Mendingwall. "Stormherald, join us!"

"I couldn't. My mother will be expecting me home soon."

"We'll send a messenger in your stead. Surely your mother can be without you a few hours." Zan offered, although within the generous suggestion was a subtle insult. _Mother's boy._

_I am not afraid of you_. "Thank you," Mendingwall bowed low. "I would be honored."

"Looks like you've made a friend, Zan. I would keep this young Mendingwall close." His father laughed, clapping him on the back.

Zanathar sniffed. "Indeed. Would you accompany me to the dining hall, Stormherald?" _I will not give you a single moment alone with her._

"Of course." Mendingwall smirked. _You have to sleep sometime._


	6. Forbidden

**A/N: I would like to thank all of you who have reviewed so far from the bottom of my heart. When I get the time, I will go back to make the necessary corrections to keep the manuscript flowing as smoothly as possible (special thanks to "Sarah" for that). ****_I would like to warn the audience that this chapter is borderline mature due to sexual implications._ And once again, thank you for all of your support.**

**Chapter 6: Forbidden**

Less than an hour later, the dining hall clamored with guests. A long table dressed with beautiful mage weave cloth was set with lovely platters of white gold and glasses of pure crystal. Roasted swan, a Darnassian delicacy, was served with fruit, along with cheeses, unleavened bread and eggs. All dishes were served by maids clad in plain purple gowns.

Laughter was shared among all, along with the latest gossip. The men mingled blushing women, and when the wine came—it is custom for Kal'dorei to have a single glass with the morning—everyone became all the more whimsical. A bard entered, curtsied, and sat herself down with a lyre, playing light-hearted music that greatly pleased the guests. Despite the cheer, Mendingwall felt too sick to eat, his stomach an uneasy rumbling mess.

Bellthaine seemed to share the sentiment. After being fetched from her bedroom chambers, she had barely touched her plate, which her mother had instructed be served lean. Zanathar sat beside her, and had little problem wolfing down two large helpings of food. He looked across the table at Mendingwall often, a crisp expression of satisfaction on his face. He put his arm around Bellthaine once and pulled her into him; she went pale and made no movement, saying nothing. Mendingwall wanted to leap across the table and choke him, and Zanathar could easily tell. It goaded him on.

At one point, he charismatically rose to his feet, crystal glass in hand. Mendingwall inwardly seethed. He could not take much more of it. Bellthaine's betrothed was full of himself, a son of confidence who adored flouting his nobility like a strutting peacock, just to make the other miserable.

"Good Lord and Lady Moonrunner," Zanathar began, holding his glass high, "on behalf of my father and his regiment, I thank you from my heart of hearts for this feast you have prepared for us. We could not have hoped for a better welcome home."

Everyone applauded. Mendingwall felt like vomiting.

"I also thank you for accepting my proposal, and for reuniting me with your daughter." Zanathar took her hand and brought her to her feet as well. Her entire body was made of stone, save her own breathing.

"A soldier could not ask for a lovelier maiden to come home to. My family is truly blessed to have such a jewel unite us in marriage to the Moonrunners, making us blood family." He raised his glass a final time. "To union!"

"To union!" Glasses clinked, and everyone drank.

Zanathar turned to Bellthaine, and brought her into a deep kiss.

It took all of Mendingwall's inner strength to withhold a scream. Hatred boiled like water in his veins. He lowered his eyes, trying to convince himself what he was seeing was a lie. His fingernails dug into his palms, his knuckles white. Applause broke out for the kiss, and the image of this usurper, lips against the love of his life, was engraved in his memory forever.

The cheering was silenced with sharp gasps. Mendingwall looked up in that instant, and saw Bellthaine shove herself away from Zanathar. In a split-second, she had raised her open hand and struck him across the face with a loud slap.

Zanathar made no movement, his own eyes wide with shock, cheeks flushing red with a mixture of embarrassment and heated anger. "How . . . dare you." She stated, her voice strangely strong, unwavering, despite her own incense.

"Bell . . . !" Her mother was horrified.

"You speak of me like a hunter speaks of his dog." Bellthaine declared hotly. "I will not be paraded, nor will I ever rejoice in your homecoming."

"Bell. Stop."

Enough was enough. The warning had not come from either parent, or Lord Duskblade, who sat with his mouth agape full of food. It was Mendingwall, now standing on his feet. She was about to reveal too much to all ears in her anger, he thought, and all would have been ruined. As soon as she locked gazes with him, her façade of courage broke, and she burst into tears. She whispered something to Zanathar, something that only he could hear, and then fled the table.

All onlookers shifted uncomfortably between Zanathar and Mendingwall, unsure what to say or think, or if they should dare speak. Zanathar's face flustered with wrath, all blaming Mendingwall, as if he were the cause.

Mendingwall bowed stiffly. "I think I should take my leave."

"I think it is best that you do," Zanathar answered, teeth gritted behind fair lips.

Mendingwall nodded, bowed to the rest of the whispering assembly, and left the banquet hall. As he passed Bellthaine's mother, he heard her address him in a small, quaking tone of voice. "If I see you on these premises again, I will have you arrested."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

News of Bellthaine's outburst and the breakfast ruckus reached the Stormherald Estate long before Mendingwall did. How such a thing could have occurred, he could not know. Whatever messenger Zanathar had mentioned must have had very swift feet. As soon as he stepped inside the house, Lycena rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "Oh, Mend, I'm so sorry!"

Awkwardly, Mendingwall gently patted her back and pulled away. "It's all right, Lycena, I'm fine."

"You certainly are not! And how could you be? She was betrothed all this time and she didn't tell you! I hope she feels terrible."

"Please, don't think ill of her." Mendingwall bade her firmly.

"Mending is right." Manolios said as he joined them, obviously agitated. He pointed a still finger in his younger brother's face. "Their betrothal was common knowledge—even the Sentinels were aware of it, Mend. Mere guards. How could you put that young lady's honor in jeopardy?"

Mendingwall snarled back at him. "She had told me of Zanathar before and that the marriage had been called off. It wasn't common knowledge to me, and I did no such thing. Mind your own damned business."

"So she did lie to you, then?"

"No, of course not. She must have just found out yesterday, that's why we . . ."

"You what?" Manolios demanded.

"We had a spat yesterday. She was trying to tell me that Zanathar Duskblade had come home and accepted her father's offer. I wouldn't let her talk." Mendingwall admitted, wanting to hit himself.

"Enough bickering, the both of you."

The three held their tongues. Nemariel glided into their presence like a ghost on the wooden floors of her home, her navy hair twisted with silver strands of age into a braid that fell long over her shoulders. She was wrapped in a shawl and wore a white nightgown. In the light, one could see through the bottom and see her thin legs. She was a frail shadow of what she once was. She pursed her paper lips, like wafers, and bid them into the kitchen. All followed without a word.

Mendingwall went first, and sucked in a sharp breath when he saw her wobble slightly. "Mother, you should be in bed."

"Nonsense." She said, taking his hand for her own balance. He carefully helped her to the servant's table, and she sat down with a groan. "Now, Manolios, my son," she spoke gently to her oldest offspring. "Do not speak so harshly to your brother."

"I bed your pardon, mother, but you have indulged his childlike fantasies too long." Manolios declared. "He is spoiled rotten and now runs around with one of the most important young ladies in Darnassus as if he owns her!"

"I do not, nor have I ever thought to own Bellthaine!" Mendingwall protested vehemently.

"It doesn't matter what you thought, what matters is that there is talk!"

"Let them talk!"

"I said enough." Nemariel cut them both off before harsher words ensued. "You are both a little spoiled, and hard-headed. But that is what comes of a household where there is no father." With feeble hands, she bade a servant to pour her some honey mint tea, and sipped at the cup cordially.

Manolios harrumphed and Nemariel turned to Mendingwall, sadness indicated upon her face. "I do not want to hear of you visiting that young lady at night again, Mendingwall. Do you understand?"

Mendingwall's gaze immediately flew to Manolios and his face flushed with anger. "You told her!"

Lycena seemed just as surprised, staring at her husband with a single delicate hand resting on her protruding belly. Manolios looked between them. "I did what I thought was right." He said in a flat, stale tone. Lycena shook her head and turned away with a sigh.

"It is not appropriate for a boy of your stature to be visiting that girl in the middle of the night, especially since she is to be espoused. I have decided that you require no punishment, after all, we are all young once, but she is promised, as are you. And so it would do you well to save yourself from any temptation." Nemariel continued, twirling a spoon in her tea.

"What?" Mendingwall gaped.

Nemariel nodded, her voice breaking. She always sounded sick. "We had visitors today. Lord Dares and Atrila Windhawk, with their daughter."

"No." Mendingwall's tone grew all the more incredulous. "You didn't."

Nemariel tried to calm him, as if she had not expected such a harsh reaction. "Dhessica Windhawk is a very fine young lady."

"She's barely even female!" Mendingwall scoffed. "Did you see her? She's more man than me and cares only for war and fighting!"

"She will be a Sentinel this winter, and her father is a very well known Ambassador. That is good blood." Manolios argued alongside their mother.

"Good blood?" Mendingwall threw up his hands. "I don't want to sleep next to steel, and have children fathered in putrid, orc-bloodied armor!"

"Mend," Lycena chided. "That is unkind."

"Please, just consider what this would do for the Stormheralds."

"I will consider nothing." Mendingwall stated firmly. "Dhessica hates me, and I don't care for her. I will not ruin her by making her yield to me, or burden her with my own heartache, and I will not follow through an old-fashioned, barbaric tradition of accepting young girls as sold slaves!"

"Where are you going?" Manolios demanded.

"I'm going to go see the Arch-Druid."

"Why?" Nemariel asked in alarm.

"He is going to make me an underling to one of his top Druids. I will be a Naturalist, and I will prove my worth to Bellthaine's parents." Mendingwall bellowed, slamming the door behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So glad you came around, my dear boy." Fandral Staghelm smiled, through in his voice Mendingwall could sense a hint of a mockery.

He had all but stomped his way back to the Enclave, ignoring stares and whispers as he moved through the city and up the spiraling ramp of the Druidtree. Throwing open the engraved doors, he entered the heart of Staghelm's throne room, filled with defiance and determination. "I want the job."

The Arch-Druid nodded, obviously pleased. "Very good. You shall leave in the morning."

"The morning?" Mendingwall blinked. "But isn't that soon?"

"The world doesn't wait for conveniences." Staghelm said curtly.

Mendingwall hesitated, and then bowed. "All right. What shall I—?"

"Bring only what you can carry on your back. My Druid will provide you with shelter, food, everything else that you will need."

Mendingwall left after that, his fury replaced with a feeling of emptiness. What was he to tell his family, worse, Bellthaine, whom he was barred from seeing? Her mother's echoing words resounded in his head as a permanent warning. He scuffed his shoes on the cobblestone road as he walked, kicking loose pebbles. How would he tell her that he was leaving tomorrow?

He made his way home slowly and was not greeted at the door. Manolios and Lycena moved past him quietly in the courtyard without a word, their eyes upon him.

Their mouths said nothing, but in Lycena's eyes he could see sympathy and hurt, and Manolios—well, Manolios had a look of stone about him. He did not bother to care as he stood alone under his father's willow tree. He could not remember what Kuja Stormherald looked like—his mother said he had only met him once as a child before his death. He wondered what he would have done in his stead, if he would have vouched for him, approved of him. He had never thought of him much before—it was the others Kuja's absence had affected.

Night fell; Mendingwall remained in the courtyard lost in his reflections, his appetite for food absent, replaced with unending anxiety. He sat alone still, on the bench underneath his father's willow tree. He heard his family dining in the kitchen, but could not bring himself to join them.

Lycena was the one to bring him a plate, piled to the brink with food. "We missed you at supper, Mending."

He grunted. "I wasn't hungry."

She set the plate down on the bench beside him. "Well, I saved you some, in case you change your mind. There's more left over, in the kitchen, too. I had the servants keep some out."

"Thanks."

". . . Do you want to talk about this?"

"I'm leaving Darnassus tomorrow, Lycena."

"I see." Lycena nodded slowly. "Well, I wish you the best of luck."

"You're the only one." Mendingwall said bitterly.

"Don't be so angry, Mend." Lycena reprimanded him kindly. "Your family loves you. Your mother and brother . . . they really do want what is best for you. They try, maybe a little too hard, but they still do. That's what families do."

"Making me follow an old-fashioned, stupid tradition isn't love, it's torture." Mendingwall retorted.

Lycena chuckled merrily. "So young." She put her arm around his shoulders with an affectionate squeeze. "Did your mother ever tell you the story of how she and your father met?"

"Not really." Mendingwall shrugged. "She doesn't talk to me about him much."

"It's such a sweet tale." Lycena smiled. "You should ask her about it sometime." She slowly rose to her feet, one hand on her belly and the other on her back. "Don't leave without saying goodbye, Mend. Don't break your mother's heart again. It still hasn't healed from the last time." And she left him alone in the courtyard.

Mendingwall frowned. Had he broken her heart before? He shook his head. Perhaps she had meant his father dying. He looked at the food and decided to force himself to eat something before the long road ahead of him. He was glad he did; the food felt good in his stomach, and the uneasiness settled a little bit with the full belly.

"Stormherald!"

Mendingwall jumped a mile in his seat when he heard his name roared like a battle cry. Striding into the house, his boots squeaking on the wooden floors, came Zavrus Raveneye. He was wearing a white linen shirt, tucked into black breeches with golden embroidery. Strapped to his belt was a rapier, glowing in the night air. His broad hand played from the hilt, and in his face there was blood-rage. "Traitor!"

"What?" Mendngwall complained, knowing immediately why Zavrus had come. "You really think I want this to—"

"Don't you make any excuses." Zavrus interrupted angrily. "Admit it! All along, you've been planning to steal her from me!"

Zavrus lunged with a wordless shout, swinging the sword within inches of Mendingwall's head in a wide, sideways swipe. Mendingwall gasped and ducked, spinning on the soles of his feet out of the blade's path. He jumped at Zavrus' unprotected side, grappling him. "Are you mad? I want –nothing- to do with Dhessica!"

"And yet, you're marrying her!" Zavrus grunted, face turning red with Mendingwall's arms wrapped around his neck. He flung about his arms wildly, trying to slap him off. "Stop choking me!"

"Stop trying to kill me!"

"Fine!"

They fell to the ground, heaving, and Mendingwall rolled off of his back, crossing his legs in the dirt. "I don't want to marry Dhessica, Zav, I promise. This is not my choice." Mendingwall panted, feeling his long ears to make sure they were still intact. "You could've taken my head off!"

"I know." Zavrus grumbled. "I'm sorry. I was just so angry." He hung his head, shoulders slumped as he stared at his glowing rapier. "I was going to ask her father permission. I was saving up, to match her dowry, thinking maybe if I showed him the money, he'd know I'd take care of her. I thought . . . Mend, I spend so much time in their house, nearly every night I supped with them. I thought he liked me. I thought he knew!"

He struck out at empty air in frustration, taking Mendingwall aback with teary eyes. "What do I do now? I made all my plans—everything—around her. I feel like it's all for nothing, now."

Mendingwall inched towards him and took the sword away, sheathing it for him, in case he angered him again. Zavrus nodded in thanks, while he sighed. "Maybe ask him anyway."

Zavrus scoffed. "It won't help anything. He asked for you. I'm just nobody."

Mendingwall sighed and clapped his back reassuringly. "I'm not going to marry her, Zav. I'm going to find a way out of it. So don't go overboard."

Zavrus nodded. "I heard about Bell's engagement to Zan Duskblade. I'm sorry. You going to run away too?"

"No, I'm to be a steward to a Druid. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

"I'm leaving too, going to Ashenvale. Orcs have been encroaching there, and they say it's a good start."

"Take care, then. Don't get killed."

"Sorry about—"

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry, too."

Zavrus was about to leave, when Mendingwall stopped him. "You think you could do me a favor?" He nodded. "Would you get Bellthaine for me? Tell her to meet me in front of the Temple tonight, when all the clerics have gone home. I want to say goodbye to her."

Zavrus gave a final, mock salute and disappeared into the night. Mendingwall's stomach churned uncomfortably. Bellthaine, what would he ever say to her? He decided a confrontation in the courtyard would best be avoided, what with his mother forbidding him from seeing her again. So, he took a walk once again—his legs had begun to ache from such strenuous activity—towards the temple, knowing that the time would come soon. Paper lanterns glowed in the night, and windows were alit with candles.

When he reached the temple, he felt as if he had walked forever. Fireflies danced in the bushes and tree leaves, and he could hear frogs and crickets singing to one another. The Temple of the Moon, where the Goddess Elune was praised, was still alight. The priestesses had not departed for the night yet, so he settled down on a bench where he could view the entrance, and seek solitude, knowing that he and Bellthaine would need their privacy on their last night together.

"Little past your bed-time, isn't it, boy?"

Mendingwall looked up, startled. Before him stood a tall Kal'dorei like himself, fair but bleak of face. His head was bare, save for a short cropped Mohawk from his forehead to the base of his neck, the color of a twilight ocean. His eyes glowed silver, and on the right side of his scalp, there was a Darnassian tattoo, the emblem of the Sentinels, the ink as black as pitch. He was dressed in light, silver mail, that glistened dull in the lantern light. Across his back was a bow, and a leather quiver filled with arrows. Two short-swords, narrow and sleek with curved hilts embedded with gems, were strapped to his waist. By the look of him, he was a Sentinel. To Mendingwall, he seemed familiar somehow, and yet he could not place him.

"Do I know you?" He asked at last.

The Sentinel smirked. "Oh, you have probably seen me around." He stood rigid and saluted with a fist to the chest. "Ex-Captain of the Sentinels, Elhadin Blackbough, and I am at your service!" He said in a mocking shout, and then laughed at himself, as if he thought he was clever. Mendingwall wondered if he were drunk. "And who might a little squall like you be?"

Mendingwall deeply resented this. "I am Mendingwall Stormherald, sir, and you should think twice before calling me a squall."

Elhadin Blackbough's eyes flickered with the mention of the name, and his laughter ceased. He stared at Mendingwall steadily, up and down. "You," he breathed. Mendingwall could smell the alcohol from where he was. "You don't look like your father."

"I look like my mother plenty, sir." Mendingwall stated shortly.

"Ah yes, Nemariel. Lovely Nemariel. Cold, cruel, unforgiving Nemariel." Elhadin scorned.

"I've got a lot on my mind right now, sir," Mendingwall answered, tired of this drunkard's ridiculous chatter. "And so if all you are quite finished insulting my mother, I would ask you be on your way."

"You sound just like her, truly." Elhadin chuckled. "Perhaps you are her son after all." He sat down on the bench beside him, and Mendingwall covered his nose, inching away. "But what are you doing out here all alone, squall? I'm surprised your mother doesn't have you holed up somewhere."

"I am not a squall, and I could ask you the same question, stranger."

"I've given you my name now, no strangers among us, now."

"You're drunk. And giving someone your name doesn't make you less strange."

"Ah, an intelligent one you are." Elhadin sniggered quietly, patting Mendingwall's back. "Just like your father, eh?" He cackled, as if he were privy to some sort of practical joke.

"You reek of ale," Mendingwall complained.

"I have been celebrating!" Elhadin exclaimed. "You would too."

"Celebrating what, exactly?"

"My resignation." Elhadin declared. He attempted to hold his head high, but he kept leaning to the side, as if he were dizzy. "As of yesterday afternoon, men are no longer accepted officially into the ranks of Sentinels anymore, and so I was forced to retire my services early. Whisperwind's orders." He snorted. "Old hag."

Mendingwall was shocked. He, as a proper noble boy, had never heard of anyone speak of the High Priestess of Elune in such a way, but he thought better than to rebuke a drunken man. "So what will you do now?" Perhaps if he continued the conversation, he thought, this Blackbough character would be quicker to leave.

"Teach, apparently. I'm not good enough to fight, so they'll have me training little girls to take my place, instead. Staghelm was absolutely furious, if you can imagine. I may not—" he hiccupped, "I may not look like much now, being all—you know—drunk and all, but I was the best marksmen out of all of them."

He looked at Mendingwall, maybe expecting some sort of praise, but was met with an expression of skepticism. "Ohh, you don't believe me, do you, little squall?" said Elhadin. "Well, all right, then, a demonstration is in order!" He rose to his feet, and moved so quickly Mendingwall could scarce believe his eyes. He had his bow bent and arrow ready and had let it loose, pinning a firefly to the trunk of a tree twenty yards away. The firefly flashed for the last time before going still.

Mendingwall's mouth was agape. "Amazing! Are you only pretending to be drunk?"

"No," Elhadin said in disappointment. "I was aiming for that squirrel over there." He pointed somewhere else, but to what he was not sure.

"So why doesn't the Arch-Druid talk to the High Priestess and get you your position back?"

Elhadin scoffed. "You don't know much about politics, do you? They loathe each other's existence."

"Does the High Priestess hate you?"

"No," Elhadin giggled to himself, "I just think she hates men entirely. Pretty stupid if you ask me, since she is married to one . . ." He hiccupped again. "Staghelm, of all people, vouched for me, the bastard. He hates me most of all, and he shows it by defending me. Says men still have a place as fighters in our world, we're not just breeders."

That made absolutely no sense to Mendingwall at all. He would have inquired further, but at that moment, Zavrus appeared, Bellthaine behind him. "I brought her," he said quietly, "like you wanted."

For a moment, Mendingwall feared that Elhadin Blackbough would report him there and then, knowing that the Sentinels served the High Priestess and the High Priest, her father, as well. But Elhadin made no movement, only stared quietly at Bellthaine's cloaked figure. She clutched at the clasp at her throat and stood perfectly still; Zavrus turned and left her there.

"Please, Captain Blackbough. Don't tell anyone." She whispered, begging him desperately.

Elhadin smirked. "I am not a Sentinel anymore, milady." He stood up and bowed low, nearly toppling over. "I do not need to report your movements any further to that lovely, sharp-tongued mother of yours."

He whirled on Mendingwall, and pointed a finger. "Do yourself a favor, little squall, and don't give her up. No matter what anyone says, don't give her up." As Bellthaine passed him, he ruffled her hair, and she giggled. Then Elhadin staggered into the night, leaving the both of them alone.

"You know that man?" Mendingwall asked in disbelief.

Bellthaine nodded. "He's the Captain of the Sentinels…Ex-Captain, now. I've known him since I was a little girl. My parents always supped with him when he returned from his expeditions . . ." She looked after him sadly. "My mother said he was greatly hurt once and has no family. I always thought him a friend. Everyone calls him the Sentinel of Sorrow..."

Mendingwall nodded, and took her hand in his. The feel of her soft skin sent his body on fire with longing, but he was afraid to let her know she still affected him so. "I'm sorry that I did not let you speak of Zanathar. I know now that you meant to tell me." He kissed her hand. "Will you forgive me?"

She did not answer with words. Instead she pushed her body against his and reached for him on her tiptoes, crushing her lips hard against his own. Mendingwall felt his self control melt away with the sweet, wet taste of her tongue as she explored his mouth. Slowly, he moved his hands up into her hair, pressing her face closer and deepening the kiss with one, and holding her waist against his stomach with the other.

"Bell," he tried to speak between her pleading kisses. "I need—to—tell—you—"

"You can't leave," She whispered, kissing in circles around his mouth, cheeks, and chin. She moved her fingers under his shirt and caressed his chest. Mendingwall felt shivers enthrall his spine. The hair on his skin stood straight up, sensing her breath on his neck.

"How did you know?" He murmured. "How did know you I was—"

She silenced him again with her mouth, hands moving along his back, hushing him, lifting up the hem of her skirt away from her feet and pulling him into a grove of trees that hid one side of the Temple. Mendingwall's heart beat wildly, heart aching. "Bell . . ."

But she would not let him finish, and they fell onto the soft grass together, entwined. He felt his breeches grow tight. Mendingwall's conscience screamed at him relentlessly to stop, but he shouted right back at it. _This is what she wants, what I want, and I love her. I love her._

"I love you."

The words came from her, her slender little body underneath him, covered in her light yellow gown that she had worn at breakfast. He had not realized in his fervor that he had been unlacing her blue corset and the strings lay in messy knots across her stomach. He could see the outline of her breasts, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deep, in and out. He drank in the way she looked, never wanting to forget her laying there, her eyes filled with hope, peace upon her face. "I wanted you to know, before you really see me."

"I love you, Bell." He answered her, cupping her face with his hands. "I've always loved you."

Bellthaine bit her lip, hiding a smile, and Mendingwall unlaced the last of her corset, slipping it out from under her and setting it aside. The only illumination on her body was the moonlight, but it was enough.

Everything after that was a dream; Mendingwall's mind a blur with his own passion. She was bare, writhing underneath him as he pressed her to the ground with his own body, thriving upon the sounds she made, and the slick feeling of her insides, he was amazed at how they fit; she was on top of him, moving slowly and deliberately, skin glistening with sweat and thick navy hair plastered against her face and neck. When she shuddered, he felt it and released his own, his hands on her hips, grasping her tight though she was as slippery and slender as a minnow.

"I shouldn't have done that," he regretted immediately as he regained his sense of sanity, overcome with the guilt of his own irresponsibility. How could he put her in such a position? _How selfish, how stupid of me, _he growled, and yet his body was alive in such a way that he had never experienced, at loss in breath. She was far more beautiful, far more amazing than he had ever imagined, and his hands continued to explore her body, not yet satiated. It killed him to think he would leave such a striking creature alone the next morning.

He tried to apologize again but Bellthaine's lips found his, and she whispered through his mouth. "I don't care, I don't," she bid him touch her everywhere. "Just please . . . you can't leave me . . . you can't . . ."

Mendingwall's body roused at her bidding and she climbed onto him, pleasuring him again. Just as he thought he might lose his better sense, he grabbed her and set her down beside him, sitting up. "I have to, Bell." He touched her face and peered into her eyes, which quivered with hurt. "If I am ever to have you, I need to prove my worth."

"He will marry me the summer you are gone," she protested desperately. "Please, Mend, take me with you. I won't get in the way, I promise. I'll do whatever you say . . ."

"Hush now," he shook his head, silencing her mouth with another kiss. "It's not about you getting in the way, it's about burning bridges. We could be exiled if we were found like this—hunted if you ran with me. I can't wish that kind of life on you, it's not anything romantic as it sounds."

She pouted her lower lip and shivered in the evening air. Mendingwall knew she was upset, but was not about to yield to her irrational request, knowing better than to escalate the situation further. He quietly slid her blue corset back around her waist and tied it as best he could, though it looked nothing like it did before. He dressed himself and picked her up, though she tried angrily resisting him. He pulled her into his embrace and she melted, shoulders stiffening with little sobs.

"I'll miss you, I can't imagine not seeing you for so long," she cried. "Couldn't you just talk to my father, ask him for my hand, before you leave tomorrow? He will be at the Temple in the early morning . . . my mother won't be there . . . he's far more sensible than she is. Please, I beg you . . ."

"All right," Mendingwall conceded, "I will ask your father. But I still need to go. You understand that, don't you?"

She hesitated, than nodded as he brushed her tears away from her eyes, kissing at her cheeks. "Oh Bell, I only ever want the best for you," he whispered, admitting, "I've never been skilled with words, I'm not a poet or much of a romantic, I'll probably drive you insane, but I want to marry you. I love you."

She smiled at him then, he kissed her a final time, and he slipped into the night, heading home, not sure whether he should laugh and dance, or mourn his coming departure, completely unaware of an angry pair of watching eyes.


	7. Sorrow

**Chapter Seven : Sorrow**

Mendingwall barely managed a few hours of sleep while hastily preparing for his departure. The packing of his clothes, of course, was a very short period in comparison to the time he spent pacing the floor of his bedroom, practicing the words as he would recite them to Bellthaine's father. He was wrecked with anxiety - Anarion Moonrunner was one of the most powerful priests of the West, a renowned and well-known veteran of the Third War, and had much title in comparison to other aristocratic Darnassians. His pride and his line was not to be treated as a trivial matter - love or not, he had to present something to prove his worth.

What exactly that was, Mendingwall knew not. The best he could come up with was his departure to aid the Cenarion Circle in their cause. Druidry is highly respected by all, and as a Naturalist, he would not be wanting, and Bellthaine certainly would not starve. She could very well be just as refined as her haughty mother, in a decade's time - and to the long-living Night Elves, a decade was not long at all.

When sky was touched with the pink of dawn, he left the sanctuary of his room, still muttering the words he planned for the High Priest, he was greeted by his family. Nemariel was clothed in her finest regalia, her robes the color of earth, and her head crowned with a wreath of clover buds in her silken hair. She leaned upon a staff carved of smooth mahogany, frail knuckles gripping it tightly as she refused to seek her eldest son's help for balance. Manolios and Lycena stood in their noble apparel as well, husband and wife on either side of her.

Manolios' face was grim; it was no secret he was displeased with the choice his younger brother had made. Lycena seemed haggard from her own lack of sleep - the side effects of her pregnancy, no doubt - but in her tired eyes there was still gentleness, and her best understanding. "Your mother wished to see you off," she said in a soft voice.

"You didn't think I would ignore my own son," Nemariel stated sternly, although her gaze was soft upon her second born. "Leaving without a word is bad luck, especially when sailing the Veiled Sea." The corners of her mouth slightly lifted in a weary smile.

Mendingwall was hesitant when she brought her arms around him, but finally enclosed his fragile mother's silhouette in a tight hug. Manolios cleared his throat, brow creased with his own concerns. "What are you planning to tell the Windhawks, mother?"

"They shall survive just as well, and find their daughter another husband." Nemariel declared, releasing Mendingwall and directing a servant to carry his things for him. Manolios did not care for that answer, but said nothing as Lycena took his arm.

"I need to visit the Temple first," Mendingwall said with a slow nod, his stomach in knots.

"We will meet you in Ru'theran, by your boat." Nemariel answered. "I shall find out which Cenarion you are serving and give them plenty of advice on how to deal with you, young man."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Temple was quiet in the early morning, and Mendingwall noted such with the silent observation that this was probably because it belonged to a Goddess of the Moon. But he knew Bellthaine's father to be a reverant man, who was rumored to pray all throughout the night and into the morning when his wife had no need of him for her own purposes. He found Lord Moonrunner before the fountain of Elune's avatar, her stone statue's arms raised to the heavens, lifting a basin that spilled crystal clear water into the moonwell below.

Despite all of his anxieties, Mendingwall felt at peace in such a place. Perhaps it was the smell of lilac incense in the air, or the feel of the grass underneath his feet, but surely nothing could go wrong in such a sacred place. He bowed, nodding one last silent prayer to Elune for his safety, and then stepped forward. "High Priest Moonrunner," he announced himself, and bowed as low as he could go without falling over.

Anarion Moonrunner turned and appraised him with a quizical eye and a raised brow. "Mendingwall, my boy. What on earth are you doing here at such an early hour?" He asked, his crossed arms disappearing under his white, silver, and gold-hemmed robes. It seemed as if his face shined in the reflection of the moonwell water, and his silhouette seemed to glow. Mendingwall had never seen him in such a state, and was in awe.

"I came to speak with you about an important matter," he said respectfully, although he could not help the confidence in his voice. Elune surely must have blessed him, he thought, although to those of you humans who are reading this story, I believe it was more his youth and brazen fashion than anything else. "If you have a moment, my Lord."

"Of course, of course. I must only finish one more prayer. Come, kneel with me, and we shall pray together." Moonrunner held out an arm level with his chest, bidding Mendingwall to join him, and the boy did so with a nod. Both kneeled before the effigy of the Moon Goddess. As was custom for an unmarried man, Mendingwall kept his arms at his side and his hands clasped before his body, head bowed - whereas Moonrunner lifted his hands to the heavens, chin up as he chanted his praises in Darnassian.

Once he was satisfied with his litany, he rose to his feet and gave a final benediction, before turning to Mendingwall with a gentle face.

"I was hoping to see you again, dear boy. My wife, you see, is a very unforgiving sort - such is the manner of her kind, but I hope there are no hard feelings between your family and mine. Rest assured, and tell your good mother, that Shalame has been berated for her behavior, having forgotten herself, and she will not speak to you in such a manner again." He chuckled to himself. "Women and their grudges. What can we men do but correct them?"

Mendingwall nodded slowly. "Forgive me, young Stormherald. Ah, how an old man babbles on," Moonrunner shook his head. "What matter would you like to discuss with me?"

Mendingwall gathered up all of courage, every last ounce, until it swelled in his chest and curled his hands into strong-willed fists. "I would like to ask," he declared in a loud and unwavering voice, "for the hand of your daughter, Bellthaine, in marriage."

There was silence as they stood apart, regarding one another. Moonrunner did not seem surprised by his request, but the tension remained, all the same. "I'm sorry, young Stormherald, but my daughter is already promised. I cannot break their engagement simply by the asking. What is it that you think you can provide my daughter, that Zanathar Duskblade cannot?"

"Happiness, sir." Mendingwall had been ready for this. "Happiness, stability, and long life."

"And how might you provide this with no profession?"

"I leave this very morning to attend the duties of a Druid. Arch-Druid Staghelm has given me the opportunity to learn under one of his best as a Naturalist, and such a title would grant my wife a comfortable home and living. She would never go hungry, and her age would transcend stars." For those of you who are struck with curiosity as to what exactly that last sentence meant, Night Elves believe that Druids outlive most other Kal'dorei because of their connection with the spirits of nature.

Moonrunner seemed pleased with his answer, but not enough to relinquish Bellthaine's engagement, so Mendinwall continued on. "It is true that from what I have seen, Lord Duskblade has great honor - but the light of his life would surely distinguish early from battle. Preservation of life is what will make Bellthaine happy, not living in sorrow as a soldier's widow. I can give her that."

"Well spoken, my boy." Moonrunner nodded. "But I cannot be sure until I have consulted the Goddess. If you would enter the moonwell with me, I could give you my final answer."

Mendingwall was confused by this. "My lord?"

Anarion Moonrunner lifted his robes out from under his boots and stepped into the water of the moonwell, bidding Mendingwall to follow him. Hesitantly, he did so, feeling the warm water of the moonwell slosh around his boots. It seemed to move underneath his feet as if it were alive and of its own mind. He had never dared enter one before, as his mother had berated him as a child for soiling its sacred water.

Underneath the statue of Elune, Bellthaine's father shut his eyes. "If you take my hand, we will see together, your future. The Goddess watches over my family, Stormherald. She has given me something very few can boast of - the ability to see things before they happen. It is called Farsight, by the shamans of our enemies. I cannot tell you how I acquired this ability, but many died so that our people would not be blinded to fate, as we once were."

Mendingwall took the hand he had offered and immediately gasped. It felt as if his body were thrown into a chasm, and he was falling steadily forward, crossing over planes of time and space in seconds, the world moving underneath him. He saw visions he could not understand, people he did not recognize. Finally they found Bellthaine, and Mendingwall's body was heavy, as if he were a stone. He could not open his mouth to speak, and they could not be seen, phantoms in a stolen moment.

Time moved before them as if the years were nothing more than an hour; Bellthaine was happy, with him upon their own estate, dressed in beautiful robes as she rested with Shadowfell, her belly swelling with child. Mendingwall felt his throat tighten; in his mind he was victorious; and yet, the thought did not last. Suddenly there was a shadow, and Bellthaine's life was stolen away, the walls thick with her blood, and they were watching her funeral, her broken body still and cold. Mendingwall's horror was shared by her father. He looked around wildly for himself in the faces of those around her corpse, but he could not see.

Moonrunner released his hand and Mendingwall stumbled forward, catching himself with a splash and gasping for air. "What was . . . what was that . . ."

"I cannot allow you to marry her." Moonrunner was like the stone statue of the goddess he worshipped, his eyes suffering greatly from the moment they had foreseen. "As your wife, my daughter will die."

"T-that can't be true." Mendingwall shook his head vehemently, gathering himself up from the moonwell and stepping out, still staggering. His legs felt like pudding. "I would never....no, I would never allow that to happen. I would protect her."

"Did you not see the shadow, boy?!" Moonrunner seemed gravely unsettled, and leaned against the effigy of Elune, his eyes on Mendingwall in disgust. "I saw its face. It was you. You killed her."

"What? No--impossible! Why would I kill Bell? I love her, I love her more than anything!" Mendingwall's voice rose to match that of her father in anger. How could he believe something so unpredictable as a vision. True, he had seen along with him, but

"Love easily moves to hatred, and passion to destruction. You must undo whatever you have done. You must forget your love, spurn it. Otherwise Bellthaine is doomed. Don't be a fool, boy--the future does not lie. Whatever the reason, you will kill Bellthaine if she becomes your wife."

"I refuse to..." Mendingwall sputtered, rage boiling in his blood at the elder man. "I refuse to believe I will become a murderer! Why can't you see me for what I am now, instead of using witchery and shaman tricks?!"

"Out of my sight, boy." Moonrunner warned. "You try my patience. Either you forget my daughter today, or I will make you."

Mendingwall blanched at the threat, backing away. "What do you expect me to say to her? I cannot break her heart, not after . . ."

"You will do whatever it takes." Moonrunner interrupted heatedly. "We will not speak of this again. You shall never have my blessing, nor my daughter, so long as her mother and I live. If I ever see you with her after today, I shall send the Sentinels upon you. Now go!"

Mendingwall left then, his anger subsiding only into desolation, his gut twisting as he gave way to the doubts of the unknown. Murder Bellthaine? Why? For what reason had this shadow of his future snuffed away her delicate life? Could such farsight be a trick, a farce, or even unpredictable - could it be changed? No, his mother had taught him that fate was always set, and there was no escaping it, no matter how it winds. The memory of her lifeless plagued and tortured him.

He conceded finally, unable to bear the thought of being the reason for her death. He had to do it, he could never see her again. He felt numb, as if his heart had broken into pieces and in its absence, he refused to feel anything else. Life around him seemed to have little meaning. When he saw Bellthaine approaching him, her face aglow with expectation and hope, it only hurt him all the more. Her navy hair fell around her shoulders, down her back in waves, and she wore a simple dress with a brown belt and slippers. He realized then; she had planned on going with him.

"Well, what did he say?" She asked with a sweet smile, clasping her hands together as she anxiously awaited his answer. When he did not speak and she saw his bleak expression, her smile faltered with confusion. "What's the matter?"

"We can't be together, Bell." Mendingwall muttered, staring at the ground, unable to look her in the eye. The words tore at him, and for once, it was his conscience, screaming at him to take her, to ignore the old man and take her away. But he could only ignore its tugging and nagging, silencing it with hatred.

"W-what do you mean? He said no?" Bellthaine sounded shocked. "I thought...no, that's not possible. Surely he will change his mind."

"It's not him, it's me." Mendingwall declared. "I've decided...that it's for the best we not see each other anymore."

The words hit her like a slap in the face, and her eyes welled up with tears. "Why are you saying this?" She managed, her breaths quickening with her distress. "You cannot mean it. Not after last night. I love you, and you said--"

"What I said and what I mean now are unrelated." Mendingwall snapped. It tore him apart inside to speak to her so, but it was the only way to save her. He had to hurt her, drive her away. If he told her of the vision she would surely follow him to her doom - and he would not watch her die.

"How can that--" Bellthaine blanched, and her face was painted with shock and betrayal. "I know you love me. I gave myself to you."

Mendingwall hated her for reminding him, the images of their stolen night dancing around in his head, of her breathtaking and the feeling of her underneath him. It was agonizing; how could he forget such a thing? But, he drove on. "I said what I needed to, to get what I wanted." He lied.

"You're lying." A sob escaped her, and the tears began to fall. "You're lying to me! He made you do this, he's making you say these things to me! It can't be true. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't love me."

And so he met her gaze, insides screaming at him to speak the truth, to take her again. _She loves you, she's yours, forget the old man! Run away and don't look back!_ But he would not budge an inch in favor of his own longing, the image of her death seared in his memory eternally. "I don't love you." He snarled, and watched as his words shattered her, each like a knife running her through. "I never loved you. You were just a beautiful, gullible, stupid girl."

That was all it took. He watched her shatter like glass, crumbling as ash in the wind, doubled over in her sobs and in the pain he had caused, and she fled from him in horror, wronged by his hateful words. It was more than he could take, and when she was gone, he cried too. She now believed him false, which was the worst of all things. Mendingwall was never one to lie. He felt filthy, accursed, and made his own way in anger towards the docks.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Ah, there you are, Mending." Nemariel greeted him as he approached. Manolios and Lycena had awaited him with her, and it was Lycena who noticed immediately the look upon Mendingwall's face. She broke away from her husband's arm and stopped him.

"What's the matter? What has happened?"

"Please, don't ask me questions." Mendingwall answered shortly, rubbing at his face in humiliation. His heart was bitter at Bellthaine's betrayal. How could he have let himself grow so attached to a girl in such a short time - how could he have taken her chastity and then thrown it at her feet in disgrace? He was ashamed of himself, truly, torturing himself with his own devices of inner punishment. "Leave me be."

"Mendingwall, this is the Druid you shall be serving." Nemariel said politely as she leaned on her mahogany staff. "Warden Rhonwen Oakensong, and her daughter, Lycentia."

Mendingwall managed to bow in respect to the Warden, who was tall for a woman of their kind. She was not nearly as feminine as other women he had encountered, not graceful and timid, but with a presence that was bold and intimidating. Her hair was cut short around her ears, silver and parted to the side, like that of a young boy, showing a strong neck and accentuating a firm jaw. She wore no robes or dresses; instead she was harnessed in dark, earthen colored leggings and a leathery vest. Her boots were made of bear fur and her gloves of seal skin, and strapped to her back was a spear.

Rhonwen Oakensong nodded curtly at him. "Mendingwall Stormherald. Your mother has told me much about you. I am honored to take you into my service." She gestured beside her. "This is my daughter, Lycentia. Your sister-in-law is her namesake."

"I am truely flattered," Lycena smiled, "Rhonwen and I have not seen each other since we were children."

"A friend is lifelong, and she reminded me of you." Rhonwen declared. Her voice rang with a feminine alto.

Mendingwall's eyes moved towards the girl, who to you humans, looked to be no more than twelve years old, her body thin but beginning to show the curves of her journey into womanhood. She wore a green gown that fell above her ankles, and a silver corset, her violet hair pulled back out of her young, fair face. She smiled at Mendingwall and blushed as a maid, moving behind her mother timidly with a nod. Mendingwall bowed to her. "It is a pleasure to make you acquaintance," he said through his misery, "Miss Lycentia."

Lycentia bit her lip and turned from him, running onto the ship. "I apologize, she is very shy." Rhonwen said. "Shall we? The Moonspray shall be departing soon." She stepped on deck, giving Mendingwall time to make his final farewells.

Nemariel embraced her son tightly, oblivious to his inner torment. "You shall write me." She instructed in a firm tone, and all he could do was nod. Manolios gave him a gruff good luck and Lycena hugged him as well, but he hardly paid attention, eyes scanning the docks and shops for any sign of Bellthaine. How he longed to lay eyes upon her one last time.

"Don't give up hope," Lycena whispered in his ear.

He already had. Slowly he made his way onto the deck of the Moonspray, and the first mate shouted at his men to ready the sails. He moved to join the Warden and her small daughter as they looked out to sea, trying to push Bellthaine out of his mind. He was unsure he could ever forget her.

The little girl, Lycentia, looked up at him curiosly as she stayed by her mother's side. She took his hand and grasped it, smiling. "Are you going to miss your family?" She asked innocently, studying the sorrow in his face.

"Yes, very much." He managed, his eyes turned towards the horizon. He never wanted to see Darnassus again. Not while it held the one person he could never have. He looked down at the young Lycentia and faked a smile, attempting to distract himself from his own grief. "Do you know where we are going, first?"

Lycentia was delighted, and her genuine smile grew broader. "We are going to Auberdine, to see my father!"

"Behave, Tia, and let the boy's hand go. You are far too young for that." Rhonwen warned, and Lycentia pouted and released her grasp on Mendingwall's fingers. He chuckled to himself, wondering where his new journey would bring him, and if as a Naturalist, he would ever find peace. Bellthaine still stayed with him, his sorrow still wedged stubbornly in his gut.

_I'll never forgive you_, his own conscience seemed to say,_ for letting me fall in love with her._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mendingwall did not see Bellthaine running as fast as her legs could take her to the dock where the Moonspray had sailed out of reach and his family had left, sobbing and calling for him until her voice cracked. Shadowfell was with her, whining, pawing at the water as if wanting to follow him. She fell to her knees when the ship moved out of sight, its silhouette faint in the distance.

"Goodbye," she whispered, and Shadowfell gave up, rubbing his body up against her. She rose to her feet, slowly, and her hands curved around her arms as if she were cold. It was true, after all. He had used her, forgotten her, left her without any regret. She felt foolish and weak, staring out at sea, the cold morning wind caressing her skin.

"It's rather sad, isn't it?"

Bellthaine turned when she heard Zanathar Duskblade's voice. He strode to join her at the end of the dock, armed and plated, arm resting upon the hilt of his blade. "You poor thing," he cooed at her, but in his eyes there was jealousy and scorn. "He did not care for you after all, did he? Throwing away your affection as if it were a trifle. There, there. He shall never return to torture you. I can make sure of that."

Bellthaine scowled at his patronizing. "I suppose I am to marry you, then, regardless of how I feel." She answered with disdain, although in her sorrow she could barely manage it.

"Not at all, not for a while, yet. I have learned that I am being sent to the front, and I shan't make a lovely flower like you a widow." Zanathar said in his own hostility. "But you will learn to love and respect me."

"I am not your property."

"No, you are not." Zanathar agreed. "I am simply stating what will happen, in time."

"I think I'd prefer being a widow."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Zanathar said sweetly, eyes flashing. "Not until I'm sure that you are not carrying Stormherald's bastard in your belly."

Bellthaine's face was that of shock, and he smirked at her. "Don't look so surprised, my lady. Your tryst was not invisible, just because you wanted it to be."

He turned away. "I am a forgiving soul, Bellthaine, and you are still young, so your naivety and your recklessness I will forget, this time. But I warn you. I will not wed myself to a common whore, nor will I raise a common whore's fatherless child. You had better hope nothing came of your little liaison."

And he left her alone in her tears.


	8. Vandal

**A/N: I am sorry for the delay in this following chapter - college classes have kept me extremely busy, but here it is at last. I'm thinking it is definitely safe to say that an epic story of this size will never be finished within 3 months in time for TJ's birthday - but hopefully part one will be finished, at least.**

**I am debating between having the story told by different characters POV's in different sections, or by sticking with Mendingwall's POV throughout. Any feedback on that would be most appreciated.**

**And thank you, all, for your kind reviews and praises. Especially Seth, who has loyally been reading every new chapter. You, sir, have definitely made my day.**

~*~*~*~

**Chapter Eight: Vandal**

Now, I am sure some of you, my friends, have sat yourself down with this manuscript not only to educate yourselves on the true story of our beloved Mendingwall, but also to acquaint yourselves with the elusive character of Vandal. It is understandable, to be sure - after all, Vandal is one of the most lovably notorious characters in Elven story telling, and is often yearned after by young damsels. Let me humbly assure you, lest you are growing impatient, you shall indeed learn of not only the legend, but he _as he truly was. _

The journey over the Veiled Sea, which is a wide straight between the islands of Teldrassil and Azuremyst, and Kalimdor mainland, was dreary to say the least. The Northwest coast of the continent is perpetually shrouded from in cloud, mist and fog, and it rains often. Many humans, who are of a superstitious mind, believe that many dangers lurk in the waters of that place to escape the exposure of sunlight. Regardless of whether or not such things were true, it took two and a half days to cross it, from the Darnassian docks to the small shore-side town of Auberdine, where they were to meet the Warden Rhonwen Oakensong's husband.

Mendingwall spent most of the journey on deck, gazing out to sea over the railings. He had a fair stomach, usually, but the recent events had left him nauseous and unable to eat properly, and he could barely sleep. His resentful mind tortured his senses further by reliving the hurt he had seen in Bellthaine's eyes, how he had surely broken her heart. He felt cowardly, dirty somehow, for his lie. He had disgraced her, taken her in his naivety and than turned around and thrown it in her face. So much for love, he lamented, trying to tell himself that it was for the best, and she would surely die, otherwise.

But his conscience, who had once so vehemently objected to Bellthaine's company, was now so attached that he absolutely refused to let himself heal, second guessing all things. A foolish priest, he sulked in a silent insult towards her overprotective father. What kind of servant of Elune would use such doubtful divinations? It could have been a demonic trick, a mistake. The voodoo of Shamans was best to be left alone by any respectable Night Elf, and it was surely an abomination for a priest to be using such farsight. But true or not, he could not risk such a thing; not with her delicate life. Such sorrow would be worse in the event of her death.

But he conceded to himself, he should have told her the truth instead of speaking falsely. He felt no better than her parents. Instead of letting her make a decision on her own, he had decided for her. This, he swore, he would not do to anyone ever again, for he began building at this time a sort of defiance of fate, and hated the idea of destiny. Passive was not a word one could use to describe Mendingwall Stormherald.

Lycentia Oakensong often came to speak with him, and he tolerated her, for the most part. She asked many questions and politely he answered, not engaging in much conversation until Rhonwen overheard them, and made it clear to her warm-hearted daughter that the boy wished for solitude and left him in peace. When the docks of Auberdine came into sight, he was famished; and altogether ready to forget Darnassus entirely, in any way he could.

Rhonwen lead them into Auberdine with a confident stride in her step, her daughter tailing close behind her. Mendingwall timidly hung back as he followed. The air smelled of pine and seawater and the boards of the docks creaked underneath him; wondering if they would buckle under his weight, he was relieved to be on dry land. Moss and grass grew between the cobblestones, and there were several houses with their roofs curved towards the sky, though they seemed weathered and small in comparison to the colorful estates of Darnassian aristocracy.

The population seemed small as well, and though they were greeted by some small merchants and locals on their way through town, it was quiet. Rhonwen lead them south, towards a small Kal'dorei house that was nearest to the beach. Lycentia laughed happily and picked up the hem of her skirt, ignoring her mothers chiding as she called out on the wind and ran ahead of them. "Father, father!"

An Elven man of average height stepped out of the doorway, dressed in leathery brown robes that seemed tattered and worn. His hands were stained with soil and his hair cut short, out of his face. His eyes and cheeks seemed sunken, as if he suffered from a lack of both sleep and nourishment, but when his gaze fell to the girl running towards him his entire face turned bright with happiness, and Mendingwall was no longer concerned for his health. Despite himself, he found that he was smiling.

"Lycentia, my dearest one!" The man laughed and picked up his daughter, twirling her about in a bearish embrace. He showered her with fatherly kisses and set her down as he greeted his wife in a more dignified manner, though his affection towards her was just as apparent. "How was your journey, my love?"

"Uneventful."

"Thank the Goddess for that," He laughed, and his eyes turned towards the wary Mendingwall with a raised brow. "Hello, who have we here?"

"Mendingwall Stormherald, this is my husband, Oone. He is my new apprentice," she explained to him, as it seemed like his presence had been unexpected. "Staghelm has instructed me on making him a Naturalist someday."

At the name Stormherald, the pupils in Oone Oakensong's eyes seemed to shrink, as if he were taken offguard. "Stormherald, you say." He repeated quietly, almost to himself, and he leaned towards Mendingwall with interest. "And what dark fate has brought you here to the city of Auberdine, away from that mother of yours, and the grave of your father?"

Mendingwall suddenly felt uncomfortable. Oone's eyes seemed to scour through him. "I...came here of my own choice, sir, and happily so."

"Indeed." Oone did not appear to believe him as he looked him over, but he nodded slowly, as if he would not inquire further. "Well, you are most welcome here, Mendingwall, son of our Lady Nemariel. Lycentia, why don't you show young Stormherald to his room; your mother and I have some things to discuss."

Lycentia did not seem pleased with this, and pouted. "Oh, very well. Follow me, Mend."

Mendingwall was reluctant to follow Lycentia into the Oakensong Estate while Oone and Rhonwen spoke in whispers on the beach - what in heaven or on earth could they have to talk about him for? - though an Estate it hardly was. Instead of a lush Darnassian property, it was a battered, aging cottage. Its colorful walls were faded with weather and time.

He stepped through the doorless threshold after the young Oakensong and peered about curiously inside. The parlor was cramped, with a fireplace and a wooden floor covered with a rug of black-bear hide, and led off into a kitchen, where he noticed off-color wooden counters and a small dining table, barely able to fit four. He noticed a smell of foreign spices and it tickled his nose. One narrow rampway led up to a second floor, where there were three small bedrooms, all of which lacked Mendingwall's idea of a necessary comfortable space.

For all of this, it was very obvious that the Lady-Warden had taken great pains and worked diligently to make such a beaten down cottage feel and look like a proper home. Darnassian decorations and scrolls depicting noble ways of life hung from walls and billowing drapes from the windows. Elegant lanterns glowed on dresser tops and filled the air with familiar smells that reminded him of his own home. The bed mattresses and pillows were stuffed with swan down, and the sheets were expensive silk in colors of gold, silver, and lavender.

"This will be your room," Lycentia said, gesturing to the bedchamber on the far right. It was larger than hers, with a single bed, dresser, and wardrobe for his things. She offered him a sweet smile and then to his surprise she yanked his bags off his back and from his hands with surprising strength.

"Oh, no, please," Mendingwall sputtered, attempting to take them away from her. "I can have a servant sort them out and unpack them, you have no need to trouble yourself…"

"We don't have servants," Lycentia cut in as she set his things on the floor.

"You don't?" Mendingwall had never heard of a noble family not having some sort of paid householder. "Why ever not?"

"No, silly," she giggled, moving to leave him in peace, sliding the door out to give him privacy. "We cannot afford them. I'll see you at dinner, Mend. Please make yourself at home."

When he was alone, he sat down on the small bed with a heaving sigh. He wanted sleep, but knew it would be difficult to attain it. Solitude brought on memories he wished he did not have. The look on Bellthaine's face seared through him again, until his bones literally ached. Never had any sorrow affected him physically so. He laid himself down and stared at the ceiling, feeling bleak. Tears came silently as if to mock his sex and threaten weakness, but he defiantly brushed them away. He had not cried since his small childhood.

His conscience took advantage of this moment to feed upon his misery. _Screw her and send her home – thinking with your manhood and not your mind. That is all it was._

_No_, Mendingwall countered his guilt as if he were wounded. _I love her. I could not let her die. She would have…if I had…_

_You don't know that!_ His conscience attacked. _You cannot trust the farsight of a false shaman. She should have been allowed to choose her own path. You denied her that goddess-given right, with a filthy lie._

_Sometimes lies can save us from a greater, evil truth._

_Truth is never evil_, Mendingwall. _You cannot have forgotten that. Truth is never evil._

He wrestled with himself for what seemed like hours before his exhaustion finally overtook him, and he fell asleep. Morning melted into afternoon, and evening came just as swiftly. Rhonwen Oakensong slid open his door to fetch him for supper, only to find him sprawled like a star upon the bed, nestled amongst pillows and knotted blankets. A fitful sleep, she realized, and smiled faintly. "Poor dear."

"Should we wake him for dinner?" Her daughter peeked in beside her, holding a lantern to light the evening.

"No, darling, let him sleep. He will eat when he is hungry – and after all he has been through, he needs his rest."

Lycentia looked to her mother in confusion. "What happened to him?" She asked as she followed after her, down the ramp and into the quaint kitchen, where Oone awaited them at the table, steaming dishes ready to be served. The aroma was delicious, however simple.

"He fell in love with a girl," Rhonwen explained sadly, breaking a fresh, warm loaf of bread and setting some on her daughter's plate, passing it to her husband before sitting down herself. "But it was not meant to be; his sister-in-law – your namesake, darling – sent me a bird with instructions." She looked to her husband grimly. "We must take care and make sure he does not do himself a harm, my love."

"Yes, of course," Oone agreed in his rich and soothing tone, "but he does not strike me as a boy to give up on his life so easily. Surely, he has come here to move on, not to end all things."

"You may be right," Rhonwen nodded, "but all the same, I think we only know half the tale, and it sounds all too familiar to me."

Husband and wife shared a knowing look, one of those looks that none could understand but themselves, as they were privy to their own secrets. "Indeed. Young Stormherald will recover for now, I'm sure, and will learn the truth in his own time, when he is ready to hear it."

"What truth?" Lycentia piped up with a full mouth, resentful of being left out of such a conversation.

"Swallow your food, and never you mind," Oone answered her sternly, but was quick to give his daughter a loving smile. "Here is the butter – use it in moderation, dear, or your mother will spend all her morning churning again."

Lycentia accepted it with a sigh, pausing thoughtfully as she spread the butter across her bread in a modest helping. "I could make him happy again," she said aloud, causing both of her parents to stare at her with wide eyes. "What? I really could!"

"You can and will do no such thing, Lycentia Oakensong," Rhonwen interrupted with a scowl as she reprimanded her. "You are far too young for courtship as it stands, and he is here for training and learning the way of the earth, not chasing your skirt."

"But he is so polite," Lycentia whined, "and handsome. And I'm only younger than him by—"

"Too many years," her father shook his head, "and that boy is of far higher status than we will ever be, my dear. You will wed yourself a good man in time, Lycentia, but you must not reach for those who are past your means."

"But father, he could be my prince charming," Lycentia sulked, poking at her plate as if she had lost her appetite.

"Those human love stories have rotted your brain, sweetling," Oone chuckled. "You must have patience. Things will be as they will, and we cannot force them along as we wish. Until the goddess shows us the way, you shall concentrate on your inscription, and on your healing."

The family fell into silence as they ate, but Lycentia only brooded, watching the stairs and hoping inwardly that Mendingwall would come down, her stomach fluttering as young maiden's infatuations often do. She was convinced that her loving parents were wrong, and in her childish way, promised silently that she would win Mendingwall's affection, or never love at all.

It was far past the wee small hours of the morning when Mendingwall awoke in a stupor to the sound of talking – no, arguing – from his window. He groaned and his bones cracked as he rose to his knees to groggily peer out into the night. When he had cleared his eyesight properly, he saw Oone and Rhonwen standing out on the beach with lanterns alight. The pine forest on the other side of the cottage that faced out to see was oddly silent; there were no crickets, owls, nor growls of wild sabers as they stalked the underbrush. The only sound was the waves of the Veiled Sea lapping black upon the shore at high tide. The moon was full and shone above the ocean brightly.

Across from his new Masters were two Sentinels, clad in full silver mail with bows of dragon sinew strapped to their backs, Darnassian blade-stars strapped to their waists. Mendingwall impulsively ducked with panic, fearing they had perhaps come for him because of his night with Bellthaine. Yet, when he heard the conversation, it quelled all of his worry and tweaked his curiosity instead.

Behind the two Sentinels was a third, whom he recognized, though he was not nearly as armed, and his appearance had changed dramatically. Elhadin Blackbough was not a sloppy drunk, but clean-cut with a tuft of silver hair upon his chin and his head shaved, save for a hawk. He could see purple war paint in the shapes of ancient spells upon his scalp, and he hung back and watched the others with an unreadable expression..

"…I wasn't aware Staghelm has become so drunk with his own power, that he can now take the law into his own hands and punish his own without the permission of the High Priestess." Oone declared, not bothering to hinder the anger in his voice.

"She had broken her vows," said Elhadin, "and was rightfully executed."

"The Sentinel's Vow of Purity were not even in place when this boy was born," Rhonwen was quick to retort, clearly furious herself. Oone was holding his wife back, and she was so obviously distraught that she could not hold her voice steady, body trembling.

"The law is the law," Elhadin answered, his words betraying no emotion whatsoever. "And unfortunately, she had to be made an example of. Sentinel blood cannot be tainted, it is Staghelm's decree, and Lady Whisperwind sealed it herself."

Oone gaped at this. "That is impossible."

"That, my dear friend," Elhadin said shortly, "is Truth. However Staghelm did find that in his heart of hearts he could not condemn the boy for his mother's actions – he is in no way responsible for her sins. Therefore he ordered me to bring him to you for safekeeping. You are her only living relative, I presume, Lady Rhonwen."

Rhonwen snapped, lunging for the man, and her fingers began to look more like claws in the moonlight - but Oone held her fast, and she broke into angry sobs. "Damn you, Elhadin, I ought to kill you where you stand!"

Elhadin's eyes flashed at this, and he barked to the flanking Sentinels, who stood as still as marble. "Leave us. Now." They bowed to him stiffly and obeyed his order, turning round and vanishing like ghosts in the darkness. Mendingwall felt his breath quicken as he watchd Elhadin move towards Rhonwen in long strides, closing the distance between them with precision. His fingernails dug into the wood of his windowsill, expecting him to strike her.

Yet, he did not raise his hand, and she struck him across the face with a closed fist. Stunned, he stood rigid before reaching out to her. "I am very sorry, Rhon. Stop. Rhon, stop it."

"You killed her," she beat against his chest, wringing herself away from his grip, "how could you, you were my best...our best..." Oone pulled her tightly into his arms and she crumbled against him, her body wracking with sobs.

"High Captain," Oone kept his voice level over his wife's distress. "How can this be even compared to Darnassian Justice? Andulasia gave the Sentinels her utmost devotion and half of her life. She always fought bravely and never faltered. Is this how she is repaid - execution without a fair trial, a hearing...nay, not even a trial by combat...nothing."

"It was not my decision, my friend." Elhadin's hard and grim face, lined with scars, had been replaced with a mask of pity. "Staghelm is losing his grip on his own sanity. He believers that there are those plotting against him, to replace him with another Arch-Druid, and Anda often voiced her disdain with him, although she did not act further than her own opinion. This purity vow is ludicrous; it is only to keep the Sentinels from proper family-making, so that loyalties will never be crossed."

Rhonwen's cries did not cease, and Elhadin's dressed hand gripped the hilt of his Kal'dorei blade with unease. "I swear to you, both of you, I did it myself to ensure she suffered none, and took no pleasure in it. I made it swift, painless, and she was given a proper burial, on a pyre of sacred twigs. I did not act to cause you pain - I hoped, if you heard it from me..."

"Staghelm has punished my family enough." Oone's voice cracked and he held his wife closer to him; she buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her cries. "We will take the boy...and I thank you for your mercy."

Rhonwen had hatred and vengeance in her eyes. "You have a son." She spat. "How is it you have been elevated from teacher to High Captain, and yet are immune yourself to the Arch-Druid's new laws?"

Elhadin became dangerous in that moment, more frightening than Mendingwall had ever seen, nor would he ever see again. His shadow seemed to spread and wind moved through his hair a mail shirt as if he had commanded nature itself. He spoke to her through heavy, gritted teeth. "I have no son, no heir." He snarled. "And you would do well to remember that, my lady."

"You are as black as your name," she said, "would that I live to see the day you are overthrown from your office."

"Rhon, enough," Oone bade her, and she fell silent.

Elhadin glowered at her. "You are a fool, Rhonwen. Once I am gone from this office I have unrighteously earned, as you say - then what? I will tell you. They give the title to a truely wicked soul, a merciless warmonger devoted solely to Staghelm's glory, and you know he would find such a person, as if he had carved them out of the trees himself. Don't look at me that way, Rhon, not all of our kind desire peace. By following my orders with dignity, however ill, I can control the Sentinels and keep them from crossing the line. Without me, there is no restraint. You have not seen the hatred I have witnessed; not a single soul becomes a Sentinel without vengeance upon their hearts."

Rhonwen had nothing further to say and meekly nodded; Oone squeezed her in a futile attempt to console her in her desolation. "Sometimes, we must accept a good man preventing a greater evil, my love."

"I will do all I can to keep you and yours safe from Staghelm's ravings of lunacy." Elhadin continued grimly. "I hope in time, you will come to forgive me. I have never desired your hatred, Rhonwen."

Mendingwall could now see why this man was called the Sentinel of Sorrow, for all either loved or hated him for his deeds, and he was truely alone. He was a veteran liar, skilled enough to pass as a drunkard when they first met, untrustworthy and still Captain, whereas he had fabricated a pitiful tale about his own resignation. _I actual felt sorry for him, when we first met...but to what end_, Mendingwall wondered. He had not been spying on Bellthaine, surely, or Mendingwall would have been confronted already. What had driven him to conceal his title?

"I will forgive you, Elhadin...and perhaps on the morrow, I'll see the light of day in my husband's logic." Rhonwen said as if she were defeated. "But I cannot forgive you tonight, with my sister's blood so recent on your hands. Where is my nephew?"

"You should know," Elhadin shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he were suddenly weary. "I instructed the boy to be taken from sight when the final blow was struck, but he is crafty, and escaped my Sentinels to return to her. He watched her last moments, from a distance. He has not spoken a word since, and is as skilled as his mother was, with knife and blade." He paused. "I have seen my death in his eyes, and he is much disturbed."

"Bring him to me," Rhonwen demanded, and Elhadin did so. Like apparitions his Sentinels appeared from the darkness, one carrying a small, thin and weakly body of a boy. He looked only slightly younger than Mendingwall in age, but malnourished and pale, with circles under his black eyes. His limbs were long and made him look awkward in proportion to his torso. He stared at Rhonwen as if he were dead.

"Velorian, your sister called him, though I can think of a far better name." Elhadin snorted, and he was handed over to Oone, who cradled him like a broken doll; Mendingwall swore he saw a bone protruding from his arm, which was tucked close to his chest. His navy blue hair was amess around his long earrs. "He looks helpless and injured to be sure, yet he vandalized our wagons with mud, piss and tar, and slit the straps of our saddles. Two of my women have been trampled on by their own sabres because of his mishap."

"Vandal or not, he is my nephew, and you have worn out your welcome. It is late." Oone said, and both bade farewell to the Sentinel of Sorrow. Mendingwall thought for a moment that Elhadin saw him in the window, a dark look in his eyes, but he ducked before he could make certain. The Darnassian elite disappeared with the fog as if they had never existed, leaving no mark or foot print in their wake - it was as if they had never existed.

Mendingwall fell into a dead sleep, for the first time what seemed like an eternity. No dreaming, no tossing about in sweat. He thanked the goddess Elune immensely for one night of relief. Bellthaine was hurt, but alive and safe in the hands of her father and her betrothed. He knew he would learn to live without her, in time.


	9. Secret

**A/N: I thank all my readers for patience. Finals are coming up swiftly - I hope to have the rest of the first 15 chapters done before January 4th, at least. We shall see!**

**Chapter Nine: Secret**

When Mendingwall awoke from his restful slumber, it was to one of the most shocking and frightening moments of his life.

Perhaps some of you, my human audience, know the feeling - that eerie, uncomfortable feeling that there are eyes upon you while you sleep, and your body awakens you from that instinct of danger. So it was with our dear Mendingwall. His eyes shot open and he became aware that there was another soul in his room - and was startled to find himself face to face with the boy he had seen the night before.

Velorian, Rhonwen's gangly nephew, was perched upon his bed in a low crouch, knees against his chest. His dark eyes were wide and his dark blue hair fell in long, unruly strands across his face. With one hand he balanced his weight, and in the other there was a silver kris, it's edges jagged and uneven.

And he was holding the dagger right to Mendingwall's throat.

He could not think to shout, lying perfectly rigid, at the mercy of this strange boy, while Velorian was as still and as steady as stone. Mendingwall swallowed and felt his skin scratch faintly against the blade.

"You know who I am." Velorian said at last, his voice a thick baritone that made Mendingwall's skin crawl. That such power in a tone could come from such a lanky boy was an accomplishment indeed.

Mendingwall forced his mouth to open and reply, though every muscle in his body screamed at him to defend himself. "You are my masters' nephew. Velorian, right? Last night. I saw you." He managed, his voice cracking. "May I ask, why you are in my room - no, let me rephrase. Why exactly are you holding a knife to my throat?"

"Vengeance, perhaps. Or justice; though both could be said, in this case." Velorian answered as if it meant nothing to him, indifference in his face. He spoke like an educated man, however frightening his appearance was. "My mother was taken from me in less than a fortnight. Why not visit revenge upon the man responsible?"

"The man responsible?" Mendingwall was utterly confused. "You mean the Sentinel Captain?"

"As well as you play the part of idiocy," Velorian answered, pressing the knife's edge closer to his skin, "you cannot fool me."

"I am not in the habit of trying to fool anybody, especially someone who has the my life in his hands." Mendingwall's fists gripped his bedsheets, trying to keep his breathing under control. "Begging for mercy, right about now, is sounding better and better - but I'd like to know what my crime was against you, considering the circumstances I've found myself in."

"I would thank you to just shut up for a moment, so that I can kill you properly," Velorian said. "It would be most appreciated."

"O-oh. All right. I'm very sorry. I'll be quiet, I suppose."

"Good."

Mendingwall waited for the killing blow, his eyes tight shut and muscles rigid as he braced himself. but it did not come. He squinted at Velorian expectantly, but the boy was exasperated and his wielding hand fell from his throat, clearly annoyed. "If you could, please wipe that ridiculous look off of your face. I cannot spill your blood when you're lying there, looking like a fool."

"I am trying to keep my bowels intact."

"Stop blabbering on about your bodily functions, it's completely inappropriate."

"I'm sorry, I've never been killed before."

"Obviously not." Velorian exhaled, rolling his eyes. "Idiot. What is your name, anyway?"

"M-Mendingwall, son of Kuja Stormherald." Mendingwall said, inwardly wondering what the hell was going on. "It's a . . .pleasure?"

"Kuja Stormherald?" Velorian drew the dagger away from him. "Really?"

"Yes, of course! Who else would I be?"

Velorian blinked, and then he sat back and crossed his legs. "Well, why didn't you say so? What a terrible mistake that would have been. I would have stabbed you multiple times if you hadn't piped up, and it would not have been a pretty sight, at all. My aunt's bedsheets would have been ruined - she would have had a fit about that, you know. Blood everywhere." He rolled his shoulders.

Mendingwall realized he was gaping. "The sheets."

"Yes, the sheets. She's so particular." Velorian agreed.

They were silent for a long time, just staring at each other, until Mendingwall awkwardly cleared his throat. "Well, I'd like to get changed now . . ."

"I suppose you do." Velorian hopped off his bed and walked out, waving before disappearing from sight. "Good morning, then."

Mendingwall shook his head, at a loss for coherent speech or thought.

~*~*~*~*~

When he finally felt brave enough to step out of his bedroom fully dressed, Mendingwall was greeted by nothing and no one, save a chilly morning draft that floated through the Oakensong home freelly. He peeked outside a window and saw that they were surrounded by an unearthly fog and that dawn had only just begun to break over the horizon. He could hear Oone and Rhonwen downstairs preparing breakfast in the kitchen; they spoke freelly and without any sort of hush about their sudden change in plans. He crept down the hallway when he saw Lycentia's bedroom door wide open, and timidly peered inside.

Lycentia smiled at him wistfully. "Oh, good morning, Mend!" She was holding a steaming bowl of broth, which smelled divine to the hungry stomach. Lying in her bed, feigning sickness quite well, was her cousin. Velorian had been presented with a large tray of food, and when he saw Mendingwall entered, he flashed him a subtle wink and a coy smile when Lycentia was not looking, before coughing weakly.

"Have you met my cousin? He's quite ill, you know, after what happened, the poor dear." She touched his arm sympathetically. "He won't talk at all, not even to my father." She set the broth down on the tray and hopped to her feet, her eyes alight with adoration as she moved to stand before Mendingwall expectantly. "Would you like to walk the beach with me for shells? It's a lovely morning."

"Lycentia." Rhonwen reproached, making her daughter jump with surprise. "You will not distract your father's student today, or any other day. He is to concentrate on his training alone." She gave her a warning look before her gaze gently rested upon her coughing nephew. "Has he eaten any?"

"Barely anything and he insists that I feed it all to him," Lycentia complained, and Mendingwall perked his brow skeptically. Velorian was certainly milking his misfortune for all it was worth.

"Than continue to feed him," Rhonwen said shortly, "but only for today. Tomorrow, he is given chores to do. As much as I would wish it, the world and our duties do not end when there is grief. Mend, if you would follow me, please. I wish to speak with you."

Rhonwen led Mendingwall outside with a heavy, tired stride. He could tell from her eyes, she had little sleep the night before. What concerned him further was a saber, awaiting her patiently on the beach side. It was a lovely creature, dark and sleek, with piercing yellow eyes. It yawned as they approached, and he felt a pang of guilt take hold in his chest when he remembered Shadowfell. _He must be so confused . . ._

"You're leaving?" He asked, watching as Rhonwen proceeded to tie packs, blankets, and other odds and ends to the saber's saddle. It's ears pricked when he spoke, and was quick to turn and nuzzle his offere'd hand with a growl, tusks smooth to the touch.

Rhonwen looked to him apologetically. "I am sorry, Mendingwall, but I will be unable to train you myself. As things stand, I must go immediately to Astranaar to settle matters of my sister's Estate."

"I am sorry," Mendingwall offered with a respectful, bowed head, "about your sister."

"Andulasia was a good woman." Rhonwen tightened the saddle straps with haste; her saber grunted. "She did not deserve such a fate, but she met it with honor."

"How long will you…?"

"I don't know," Rhonwen admitted. "But speak with my husband – he was once a Cenarion Druid, as I am. He shall train you appropriately as a Naturalist until I return."

_Oone, a Cenarion Druid?_ Mendingwall managed to nod graciously.

"Take care, Mendingwall Stormherald – and watch your back."

Mendingwall blinked at this, awkwardly waving farewell to his master as she mounted and nudged the great cat into a graceful run, disappearing into the shadows of the Darkshore forests. He stood a while in the chill morning air, staring out to sea. His heart stung in the newfound solitude.

Wandering back inside, he went upstairs to see Lycentia still reluctantly tending to Velorian. She looked up and smiled brightly at him when he approached, quick to leave her cousin's bedside. Her wistful expression made Mendingwall shift uncomfortably from foot to foot and Velorian's once curious face twisted into a glare of knives.

"Mend," she said, taking his hands forcefully and squeezing them. "Won't you come sit down with me? I'm trying to get Vel to talk, but he won't."

Mendingwall lifted his eyes to return Velorian's wicked stare with pure, uninterested skepticism. "Will he not?" He asked. "Where is your father, 'Tia? I need to see him."

"He goes to the fisherman's docks every morning," Lycentia pouted, "you'll find him there."

He brought his hands away from her grasp as Velorian brooded unhappily. "Thank you."

When he had gone, Lycentia sighed dramatically, lifting up the hem of her lavender dress from the floor as she returned to her cousin's side. "He's so wonderful, isn't he?"

Velorian said nothing, eyes moving from her innocent face, fixing on her bodice before moving down her waist and skirt while she was preoccupied with her childish swooning. She sat down beside him and his gaze quickly snapped up to the proper place as she attempted to give him another spoonful of hot brother, but he grunted and turned his head away. She frowned with genuine concern. "You can't be full, Vel. You must eat, you are practically skin and bones as it is – my father even said so."

Vel stubbornly shook his head, gesturing to a book lying on a nightstand, out of his reach. Lycentia blinked. "Oh! Shall I read to you?" She offered. "I can, you know, I am a very good reader. Here, let me…"

Lycentia stretched across the bed, which was just what Velorian was waiting for. As she reached to retrieve it, and after he had gotten an eyeful of her pretty rear underneath her silken clothes, he grabbed her by the shoulders, yanked her to face him…

…and hungrily kissed her mouth.

Lycentia was stunned for one moment, unable to think, her lips fiercely pressed against his. His dark eyes were watching her, awaiting some sort of reaction, though whether or not he expected an affectionate return or a beating could not be distinguished.

He got it. Lycentia pulled away, gasping and covering her mouth in disgust as if she had committed a terrible sin. Velorian smiled at her victoriously, enjoying the rise and fall of her chest and the shock upon her face, reveling in the blush that had appeared on her cheeks. Then, to his surprise, she moved to kiss him again – or so he thought, but instead of an eager mouthful of pretty lips, she deliberately spilled hot broth in his lap. He yelped and tried to get the soaked sheets off of his legs, all the while crying, "ow, hot, hot!"

Lycentia smirked at him. "Talking now, too? You poor, poor thing."

Velorian patted his scalding trousers down and chuckled. "I thought you were beautiful before," he said, "but you look like the goddess herself when you are angry."

Lycentia swung at him with an open palm, infuriated, but Velorian easily caught her by the wrist and pulled her up against him, admiring her flustered skin and burning eyes. "You let go of me right now," she threatened, "or my father will hear of this!"

Velorian clicked his tongue, quite amused. "Tut, tut, little princess – I'm beginning to think perhaps you didn't enjoy our first kiss."

"First and last," Lycentia corrected hotly, "and I did not enjoy it, not in the least. You, cousin, have stolen my very first kiss, one that I was saving for someone special. I will never forgive you."

"Your first kiss." Velorian hypnotically brushed her sweet, full lips with a coarse finger. Lycentia shifted nervously and Velorian let go of her wrists, yet she stayed as if mesmerized. "I am honored, little princess, but you make me feel so dishonest. Stolen your very first kiss? How terrible of me. I tell you what – I will never kiss you again, unless you ask me. This, I swear."

"You'll be swearing oaths up and down once my father gets through with you," Lycentia had gotten out of whatever trance held her there, and she quickly picked up the spilled bowl off of the creaky wooden floor, stripping the ruined sheets from the bed as well.

Velorian hopped to his feet and stretched his arms high above his head. "I wonder what my dear uncle would say if he knew his sweet little darling was spying on his wife's student while he dressed."

Lycentia's mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Velorian gave her a sly grin.

Lycentia knew she had no other choice but silence, but was a very poor loser when it came to arguments. She furiously stomped her foot to the floor. "Fine, but no more kissing, I can promise you, never in my life will I ever ask you for a kiss."

"Never say never, princess." Velorian winked.

Lycentia's face went red as a beet, and she wanted so very much to strike him across the face. "What is wrong with you, anyway? Your mother just died and you're acting like a…"

She faltered. In that moment, Velorian's face completely changed, stopping Lycentia short in her sentence with a very vile look. In the pit of her stomach she felt unease, even fear. No longer was there a playful, mischievous grin on her cousin's face – no, now there was anger, twisted with an unfathomable sense of vengeance and bitterness, as if he were a dangerous animal trapped in a cage, ready to break out and lose himself in a very deadly rage.

"Get out." He snarled. His expression startled her, along with the sound of his voice coming from deep within his throat.

"Vel, I'm sorry –" She timidly tried to fix what she had done.

"Get. Out. Now."

She did not need to be told again, leaving him alone in her room in a hurry, nearly tripping over the sheets she held in her arms. Velorian stood rigid, staring with eyes as wicked and as livid as that of a demon. He had not forgotten his mother's death; he would never forget.

_Elhadin Blackbough_. He thought the name darkly. _Elhadin Blackbough_.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mendingwall found Oone sitting with his feet dangling, fishing rod in hand, on the edge of the Auberdine docks. His first impulse was to laugh. The man was wearing gray patched overalls tucked in heavy black galoshes, a dirtied white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a brown mottled hat with a flamboyantly green feather stuck in its rim. This odd man was a Cenarion Druid? He had thought of Rhonwen as a powerful master, with infinite wisdom and the grace of a lady. Oone seemed the exact opposite in a very comical way.

"Ah, Mendingwall," Oone greeted him cheerfully. "Grab a rod, and sit down, sit down."

He hesitated, and then picked up a rickity old fishing rod that looked like it had seen far better days - he worried it might fall apart at any moment. "I'm afraid I've never really fished before, sir, not since I was very little," he admitted, awkwardly scooting himself to the dock's edge to sit near his newly appointed master.

"I figured as much." Oone laughed, a jolly sort. "Noble boys are trained in word and fencing sword, and little else nowadays, as if all other things - food, shelter, comforts - will be forever provided to them by merchants, traders and the like. It is partly true, of course."

He wrapped a small feather around the hook of Mendingwall's line, and then instructed him to cast after his example. "The thing about aristocrats, boy, is that unless they are capable of being completely self-reliant, their status in life becomes absolutely useless. Building yourself on the wealth of your father begets no responsibility at all. One must learn to be a productive part of society...at one with nature, with the skills of survival, to be of any merit."

"I'm not sure I agree..." Mendingwall pondered aloud.

"Disagree, and it makes little difference, Mendingwall." Oone reeled in a fish and tossed it into a small barrel of water, where it desperately splashed about until he removed the hook and it calmed down. "The goddess is in the nature all around you, one simply cannot deny it. A priest cannot heal the sick without the breath of life Elune's creations gives her. A warrior cannot fight without knowing his terrain, or the earth might swallow him up. A hunter cannot commune with animals unless he first learns to respect them – and a druid cannot change her shape, without its understanding."

Mendingwall felt a tug on his line and clumsily reeled it in – a baby Little-mouth squirmed defiantly on the hook, unwilling to let go of the feather. "Let him go," Oone instructed with a chuckle, "he's barely a mouthful. When he is grown, we will cross paths with him again."

Mendingwall obeyed and tossed it back into the water. "So, you will teach me to be a Naturalist?"

"I am teaching you." Oone nodded. "A Naturalist's job is to balance harvest and preservation, and to understand that what we take from the earth we must give back equally. The first lesson is fishing and patience. You must learn to hunt as well, and how to survive in the wilderness. Just like a man must know, all things take time. A year and I will have you a full-fledged Naturalist – a year longer and you could possibly be something more."

Mendingwall was intrigued. "But Staghelm said I would only ever be…"

Oone shook his head and chuckled. "Greatness runs in your veins, Mendingwall Stormherald. I can feel it."

And so Mendingwall went fishing with Oone every day – first with a rod, up on the docks, where they would catch a few fish worth eating. Then, they would take them back to the cottage, and Oone would task him with the gutting, cleaning, and cooking of the meat, over a roaring fire built on the sand or a wood stove in the kitchen. Needless to say, the first few suppers were burnt and the bread overdone, but Oone and Lycentia never complained while he learned, praising him for each attempt. "This tastes like feet." Velorian was a bit more honest.

Once he could make a dinner without spoiling it, Oone took Mendingwall into a small Darnassian fishing boat, with ribbed paper sails of royal purple, silver, and gold, with the emblem of the World Tree painted across the centers. They fished by casting nets over the side, and dove into the water to set traps for crab and other shellfish. He got better at fishing, and cooking, and swimming. Velorian was soon forced to learn the same things, and would accompany them out to see, pulling heavy, full nets of fish back onto the boat. What they did not use themselves, they sold in Auberdine, and always at a fair price – Oone was a popular name in the village and everyone preferred him over foreign traders.

After a storm hit and raged for three days, Oone's next task for them was the making of a new boat. It was a long process. Mendingwall and Velorian said farewell to an unhappy Lycentia, who was deemed too young for such a journey, and traveled South, following the road for half a day and half a night by foot, until they reached the Glade of the Ancients in Southern Darkshore. There, they praised Ornu, an old ancient Oak with lovely golden leaves. They asked for permission to use his trees, and Ornu spoke, saying he saw goodness in their hearts, and gave them two large bags of seeds. His permission was granted only if they planted two hundred trees along the shore banks to replace the twenty or so they would need.

Velorian did not say anything about it, until they were away from old Ornu's ears, and then he said very shortly, "hooray, planting trees – just what I wanted to do with my life."

Mendingwall laughed and despite Velorian's lack of eagerness, they had a good time on their return to the shore. As Oone had asked, they felled trees with axes in their hands, and under his supervision they cut, sawed, polished and smoothed the wood, carving a new boat far more ornate and sturdy than the last one. Velorian enjoyed whittling prayers of protection on the curved bow – Mendingwall noticed he was happiest whenever there was a knife in his hand.

Oone noticed this too, and when he caught the boy stealing food from the kitchen, he punished him by teaching him how to throw, properly stab, and use his knife on a log. Velorian was never satisfied. He trained every day until his target was nothing less than shreds of wood.

It took them a full week to plant the seeds Ornu had given them; Oone himself never aided them, instead spending his time teaching Lycentia her scripture lessons in the home. Lycentia still smiled that same wistful smile that made Mendingwall uncomfortable, reminding him of the girl he was forever trying to forget. Velorian never seemed to like it, and he would never allow them to be alone together if he could help it. Mendingwall was inwardly grateful for that.

While planting the seeds, with their shovels and bags, they would often talk and plan their future together. Mendingwall and Velorian were friends, now, and inseperable. It was closer to the truth to refer to them as brothers. When Velorian was around, with his dry humor and his unending mischief, Mendingwall found it easier to forget Bellthaine and fill his mind with other matters. The slightly younger boy had no desire to go to Darnassus, ever, instead talking of the adventures they would have traveling far South, East to the Human Kingdoms, and then up North, where some great land had yet to be properly explored.

"You'd never figure that Oone knew so much," Mendingwall commented on the final day of planting. The afternoon was warm and sweet with pine; both of them had shed their shirts and were covered head to toe with dirt and sweat. He walked to the sea as it lapped upon the shore to wash himself off and cool his skin, when he noticed his reflection. In just a few months, he had grown, no longer small and thin, but with a muscular chest, strong arms, and a thick neck. His navy blue hair was long enough to pull into a tail in the back, and he had the makings of a beard. He looked to Velorian curiously, and saw that his friend had changed too, no longer frail, sickly, and gangly.

Velorian nodded, pushing his shovel into the earth with his boot to plant another seed. "Makes sense, if you think about it."

Mendingwall was confused by this; Velorian noticed. "Oh, come on now, you mean little Mrs. Mendingwall Want-To-Be never told you?"

"Please, don't call her that," Mendingwall groaned, thinking of Lycentia. "And I have no idea what you are talking about."

Velorian was amused by this. "Oone Oakensong was an aristocrat, same as you; not only that, he was pretty much the right hand man of Staghelm, back in the day. Top Druid underneath him, Head Warden, and had control over several territories as far as where the Cenarions moved and why."

"So, what happened?"

Velorian grabbed their bag of provisions and pulled out a slice of bread, snarfing it down hungrily without even breathing. "He met Rhonwen."

"What?"

"Rhonwen was a Warden – Staghelm really favored her. A little too much, it was said. So when Oone began courting her, the Arch Druid threw a royal fit. He had Oone sent to the very edge of the world on a wild quest and forbade him from returning to Darnassus until it was completed, in hopes Rhonwen would lose interest, but she didn't. Instead, she came here, and married him, and when she heard Staghelm had really lost it and was plotting to get rid of him so she would be free to court again, she got pregnant with Oone's child."

"Lycentia?"

"Eventually Lycentia." Velorian shrugged. "She never had a problem getting pregnant, I heard – it was carrying to term. You've seen their garden behind the house?"

"Yes."

"Seven."

"Seven what?"

"Failed childbirths. There are seven markers back there, I counted." He said without any sort of emotion in his voice at all.

Mendingwall felt sick to his stomach. "Poor Rhon."

"Well, they saved her, really. When the Arch Druid heard she could not carry a healthy child – well, he lost interest in her entirely."

"That's terrible." Mendingwall picked up his shovel to continue planting. "I never thought of Staghelm as politically ruthless."

"It really shouldn't surprise you. I mean, look at your mother."

Mendingwall's digging stopped. He looked up at Velorian, eyebrows raised. "What about my mother?"

Velorian saw his eyes and immediately knew he had made a mistake. "Sorry," he said quickly, "I misspoke. Not your mother. I…meant mine."

"No," Mendingwall said stubbornly, shaking his head as he threw down his shovel, "you very deliberately said my mother. Why? What about her?"

"I told you, I meant mine." Velorian answered.

"What have you heard?" Mendingwall scrutinized him. Was it about his mother's illness? Did Staghelm have something to do with her weakened state? "You're hiding something from me."

"No," Velorian retorted, becoming angry. "I'm not."

"Liar!" Mendingwall lunged at him, pushing him to the ground. He was not sure why he had this sudden rage, but the other boy was quick to pull his feet out from under him. They grappled and wrestled, rolling about in the sand, throwing wild punches.

"Tell me!"

"No!"

"Boys!"

It was Oone. He leapt faster than a mortal man could blink to Velorian's aid, grabbing Mendingwall's arms and lifting him away as if he weighed nothing. "What on earth is going on?"

"He hit me!" Velorian said, absolutely furious as he tried to take another swing, but Oone was in the way.

"He said something about my mother!"

"Enough, both of you!" Oone snarled, and the panther-like sound in his throat was enough to render both of them obediently still. "Tell me what happened, one at a time."

"He said something about my mother and Arch Druid Staghelm, and I want to know what he meant." Mendingwall demanded.

"I told you, I made a mistake! Staghelm's men killed my—"

"You haven't talked about her once since her death, and now suddenly you'd bring her up?" Mendingwall scoffed. "I don't believe you."

Velorian's clenched fist hit Mendingwall's jaw so squarely, it sent him careening backwards. Oone held the boy in an armlock and he struggled, growling. "All right, that is enough. There will be no more insults here. Mendingwall, go home and help Lycentia in the kitchen."

"But he—"

"I said, go home."

Mendingwall scowled and quickly stalked off, grabbing his shirt and rubbing his grubby face with it. Oone then turned to Velorian, hissing through his teeth as the boy nursed a busted lip. "What have you done?"

Velorian stared at the ground in shame. "I thought he knew. I'm sorry."

Oone nodded slowly, and then patted his shoulder with a sigh, his own aggravation subsiding. "It's all right, it's all right. You didn't mean to. Go home, boy, I'll finish up here…then I will talk to him."

A note for all of my human readers – never insult the mother of a Kal'dorei. It could be the very last thing you ever do.


End file.
